


Aaron and the Egg

by Cat_Jenkins



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, Family, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 129
Words: 238,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Jenkins/pseuds/Cat_Jenkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your husband is snatched away at a moment's notice by unsubs who have no respect for a man's right to procreate, starting a family can be a challenge. Haley Hotchner is realizing that she might need help to get Aaron in the right place, at the right time & injury-free. Timing is everything...and sometimes it takes teamwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Timing is Everything

I know…Gideon was around for the birth of Hotch’s baby. But I prefer Rossi. So that’s how it is….

 

 

 

Haley Hotchner stared at the stick from the home pregnancy test kit…and sighed, letting her head drop forward in abject despair.

Negative again. And now the damn things didn’t pull any punches. No sweet little plus or minus signs in hopeful, pastel colors. Now, the smug, little stick said very clearly ‘NO.’

Rude. Abrupt.

Made Haley glad she’d peed on it. It deserved no better. Maybe she’d even do it again.

But right now she had to face facts.

It had been six months since she and Aaron had decided to take the plunge…figuratively…and start a family. And Aaron _had_ been plunging…literally…every chance he got.

Problem was, when your husband was called away at the drop of a hat and _kept_ away by serial killers, rapists, and kidnappers who had the brazen inconsideration to ignore a man’s right to procreate…well, _timing_ was the issue.

Haley’s eggs were on a schedule in direct conflict with that of the BAU.

With narrowed eyes and sneering lip, she dropped the offending stick into the trash. _I’d pee on you again, but you’re not worth the effort, stick. Instead, I sentence you to rot in the depths of the Hotchner detritus. Used tissues. Dental floss. Nail clippings. You deserve no better. ‘Out, damn stick! Out, I say!’_ She gave her head an aggravated shake. Paraphrasing Shakespeare was better than the stick deserved.

She cast a disgusted glare at the thing where it lay atop the hair she’d pulled out of her brush earlier….And Haley’s heart melted.

So many of her friends’ husbands and lovers were losing their hair, leaving tufts and clumps in sinks and drains. Not Aaron. His was as dark and thickly lustrous as the day she’d watched him make a fool of himself in high school trying to earn a place in the Drama Club.

The man would never go bald.

Leaning against the sink, Haley closed her eyes. For almost a year now a small, dark-eyed, tousle-haired replica of Aaron had been troubling her dreams. _No. Not ‘troubling.’ Visiting. Gracing. Blessing._

She knew it was the child she wanted so badly. She raised her lids, fixing her mirrored image with a look of steely determination.

Aaron never talked about his work, but one thing was undeniable. Successful completion of a mission depended upon each and every member of his team contributing to the best of their ability.

_And this is no different._

Haley Hotchner had come to a decision. Getting pregnant…getting Aaron at the right time and in the right mood and in an appropriate place…was going to take…

…teamwork.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It had been a trying case.

The unsub had been cagy and cruel, disappearing into the forests of Oregon after the casual murder of three separate families. Three branches of heredity lopped off and discarded. Three lines brought to extinction.

And when he’d been found, he’d attacked with the abandon of someone who knows his time is up. But this sick ticket hadn’t been bent on suicide-by-cop. He’d wanted to snuff out as many more lives as he could in the time he had left. Even out of ammo, even cornered and cut off, he wasn’t about to cave.

It had been Hotch’s bad luck that he’d been first in the door once Morgan kicked it in.

With nothing left but the immense strength of his hulking body, the unsub had been ready. He’d blindsided the first poor sod who entered his lair, thrilled that the man was so thin he imagined he could feel his bones cracking even through the dense thickness of a flak vest.

Before Hotch could fire a shot; before Morgan could yank him out of harm’s way,  before anyone else could enter the cabin…the unsub had enveloped Hotch in a relentless, ever-tightening bear hug. With an elated roar of victory, he’d tried to crush the life out of what he knew would be his final victim.

Hotch’s breath vacated his body, replaced by searing pain.

Mere fractions of a second elapsed before the others came to his aid, wrenching the unsub’s arms away, pinioning them back, allowing the Unit Chief to drop to the floor, gasping.

It could have been worse. Hotch acknowledged that on the flight home as he kept his breathing shallow, trying not to aggravate a sore spine and ribs. No one engaged him in conversation, knowing he couldn’t aspirate words without pain.

Sighing, Rossi watched his friend try to cover up his discomfort.

Just when Hotch thought he was doing a pretty good job of it, the older agent went to the small galley. Murmuring about the debatable value of faking a sound body, Rossi prepared an ice pack and a glass of his private stash of Scotch. When he returned, he placed one in Hotch’s hand, slapping the other against his midriff.

“You’re a lousy actor, Aaron. Your wife loves you, and even _she_ says you couldn’t act your way out of a paper bag. So quit trying. Drink up and keep that ice on whichever parts need it most.”

Hotch grunted his gratitude and did as instructed. After the ice had numbed him, he texted Haley that he was on his way home.

Her enthusiastic response that his ‘timing’ was perfect  made him close his eyes, emitting a small, private groan. Hotch knew what ‘timing’ meant. Ovulation. And Haley would want to act on it immediately. Several times, in fact. As many as Aaron could manage, for as long as he was home.

Only right now, the way his body felt, Hotch didn’t think he could manage to raise his arms, much less anything else.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Eager Haley had oiled her traps.

Now she was waiting for the prey to fall into them.

She’d slipped into Aaron’s favorite negligee.

When they’d first met, he’d liked lacey, black whispers of silk. But, after years of black suits, black SUVs, and black bruises, overexposure had altered his tastes. Pastels helped take his mind off the dark-colored tools of his trade.

In deference to her man’s evolving preferences, Haley was draped in flimsy swathes of lavender chiffon, fragrant with the scent she’d purchased especially for these occasions. Pheromones were the main ingredient. She didn’t care if the aroma was a little overpowering. If it helped, she’d bathe in the stuff. Hell, she’d bathe _Aaron_ in it, if he’d let her.

Candles were set on strategic surfaces; but nowhere that might be targeted by a stray arm or leg, flailing about in the throes of passion, resulting in conflagration and an embarrassing visit by the Fire Department. The Hotchners had learned from their mistakes over the years.

Haley thought of Italian as the cuisine de l’amour. But Aaron’s appetite was chancy at best. If the case he’d been working had been particularly horrific, she’d be lucky to get _any_ food into him. So she needed to be sure she plied him with something easy to digest…no exotic spices…and calorie-dense. Especially since she planned on working several hundred out of him during the next few hours. So a steak dinner was warming in the oven…ready for consumption within twelve minutes of Aaron’s arrival.

Music set a sultry mood.

When Aaron’s key hit the lock, Haley took a deep breath and leaned forward, prepared to pounce.

But the battered thing that dragged through the door, wincing bravely when she hugged it…was not the breeding machine she’d envisioned.

“Hi, Honey…” Even the baritone voice sounded less vital…weak…juiceless.

Haley’s disappointment melted into sympathy when her husband tried to rise to the occasion. The atmosphere, the trappings, all demonstrated to him that there were expectations to be met. He struggled to make his sore body move with what he imagined was smooth, masculine grace.

It was a sad imitation of the real thing.

Haley’s shoulders sagged. _Oh, God. He’s hurt. And he’s going to try and bluff his way through._ She bit her lip. _This is **not** how it’s supposed to be._ **_Not_** _fair. The Bureau should put men who are trying to make babies in some special unit. Or issue them full body armor. Or make them sit in the SUV while everyone else goes out to play, or fight, or whatever they do._

Aaron kept battling through the pain. He clasped his wife close. He kissed her with thoughtful intent….

… Haley rested her head against her husband’s chest when he attempted a pathetic facsimile of a hug. She heard the muted intake of breath as pain coursed through him. When the body began to shake from exertion as Aaron tried to conceal his injuries, Haley knew he thought switching to a kiss was a crafty move; a cunning diversion.

But when his bottom lip began to tremble, she had to throw in the towel.

“Aaron, Sweetie…” She leaned back, looking at his dark, hopeful eyes, brimming with the belief that he was doing his part; that his wife was none the wiser about his disabilities. She looked at the bravely quivering tip of his nose, and just…couldn’t…squash…that valiant, struggling male ego. With the body damaged…ego was all he had left.

“Aaron, Honey…” Haley sighed. “…not tonight. I have a headache.”


	2. Here an Egg, There an Egg

Haley lay on her stomach, watching her husband sleep.

Aaron was supine. He hadn’t moved at all for three hours. A little twitching maybe, but nothing more. Unusual. People changed position during the night. They shifted. They rolled over. _Something_. The only time they didn’t was…Haley sighed… _if they hurt too much to do so_.

She had pretended not to see, or to be hurt by, the relief in Aaron’s eyes when she’d told him she didn’t feel like doing anything in the baby-making department. Haley was much better at acting in such situations than he was. Aaron didn’t sense anything amiss.

 _Probably because he was hurting. I wonder how it happened._ She used to question him about his cases, unable to grasp why he was so reticent when it came to discussing his work. It had led to one of their first arguments…

“Why won’t you share that part of your life with me, Aaron?” Exasperated, she’d finally confronted him. “It would help you relax to talk about your job with someone who’s not only _not_ a part of it, but is _on your side_!”

“Haley, please…” He’d sounded weary, but his voice rumbled, still capable of anger, if pushed too far. She’d thought pushing might be what he needed. She could feel the wall he was in the process of erecting between them. She was terrified of what would happen if it reached completion.

“Don’t you trust me, Aaron?”

That had hit him. He’d turned sad, shadowed eyes on her. She hadn’t known… _still_ didn’t know…that he feared the wall his work required just as much as she did. But he also needed it.

“Haley, I’m sorry. I _do_ trust you. I’ll _always_ trust you. But…I need someplace…some _one_ …where work can’t reach me. Where I don’t see…” He’d trailed off, reluctant even to mention the horrors that attended him once he stepped through the doors of the BAU.

When he continued, his voice was lower, reminding her of the confessional rather than their living room.

“Haley, I need someplace clean, free from…all _that_.” His eyes had pleaded with her. “I need you to be my safe place.”

Neither one of them knew if they were taking the right steps, or if creating a dichotomy in their lives would rip them apart. There were no templates, no examples, no one to ask. All they could do was stumble forward…and hope.

So Haley lay in bed, propped up on her elbows, watching her husband sleep.

She stared at his profile.

 _I want our baby to have your nose._ She shifted to her side, freeing one hand to trace a tentative path down the long tendons in Aaron’s neck. _And boy or girl, I want our baby to be built like you; to have your length and elegance._

She let her hand travel lower to the indentation just below his chest; just between his lungs. From that vantage point she could tell his breathing wasn’t normal. He was taking tiny, shallow sips of air. _So deep breaths hurt._

Watching him was making her rethink the moratorium on physical exertion. _Maybe if I do all the work?_ Her hand reached lower, appreciating his taut stomach muscles. Even in sleep, his breathing roughened, eliciting a muted moan of pain.

With a frustrated sigh, Haley withdrew her hand.

One of the things that she loved about being with Aaron was how she could gage his level of excitement through his respiration. She replayed it in her memory, from labored to growling to final purr. With a deep sigh of regret, Haley accepted that her man’s injuries affected his lung capacity. It would be cruel to force them to expand.

 _Maybe if I take really good care of him, he’ll recover before he gets called in again._ She leaned closer, brushing her lips across the lean muscles of the shoulder nearest her. _Rest, my beautiful husband. I’ll do everything I can to make you feel better._ She sighed. _Even if that means leaving you alone._

Vowing to devote this ovulation cycle to pampering Aaron, Haley drifted off to sleep.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch opened his eyes and knew, without even trying to move, that he’d stiffened overnight.

When he did try…he regretted it.

Nothing was broken. It was location that was the problem. The bear-hugging unsub had managed to affect areas that it was impossible to isolate, impossible to avoid using. Right now, it felt as though all movement originated in the center of his body, the part that had been so cruelly compressed.

 _All roads lead to pain_ , he thought, emitting a careful, tiny…miniscule, really…dejected puff of air. He was on the verge of manning up to the need to get out of bed, having decided that rolling off  the edge was the only viable option, when the bedroom door cracked open, revealing one eye. The eye gaged Hotch’s condition. Seeing he was awake, the eye’s owner pushed the door wider.

“Morning, Sweetheart.” Haley entered carrying a tray. Hotch turned his head, smelling coffee and hoping he wouldn’t have to sit up in order to accommodate some sort of breakfast service, no matter how well-intentioned.

But when she placed the tray on the mattress and he could see its burden, Hotch fell in love with his wife all over again.

Yes, the coffee…but, aspirin; buffered, in deference to his jumpy stomach…a hot water bottle, the warmth of which he could sense even inches away…a tube of ointment, the label of which made claims about soothing deep muscle pain.

“Ohhhh, Haley…I love you.”

The only item that gave him pause was the small bottle of massage oil.

That could mean nothing…or everything.

Haley had taken the decision to start a family as incentive to expand the Hotchners’ boudoir repertoire. The oil could be intended for therapeutic treatment…or…arousal. But when Aaron applied his profiling skills, analyzing the tray’s contents as a crime scene, he relaxed. There was too much evidence that he wife knew he was suffering. It overshadowed any ulterior, oil-related motives. Even if the stuff was honey-butter flavored. And heated on contact. And increased its warmth when blown upon.

Haley sat beside him, keeping a space between them in case her weight depressing the mattress disturbed her husband’s sore body. Searching his face, she brushed the hair back from his forehead, taking time to play with it a little. It was a light, affectionate gesture…

…but Hotch had experienced it before. It might, maybe, possibly, be a prelude to…

_No. No, she knows I’m in pain. She’s just trying to comfort me…to let me off the hook for ruining her plans last night._

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment, savoring being cared for. He opened them when Haley’s hand moved, resting her palm against his cheek. Her smile was small and tender.

_How could I think she’d bully me into anything? Just look at her. I love the warmth in her eyes._

Sighing, Haley continued to caress his cheek, running her thumb over his cheekbone.

_And that’s another thing…I hope our children get your bone structure._

She scanned the length of his body, mapping out a game plan. When she looked back into his eyes, she tilted her head at the tray of remedies. “Okay, Aaron, aspirin first. Then, I’ll try to do this with as little pain as possible for you.” Her smile widened. “I’ll be gentle.”

Hotch’s pupils dilated. _Holy crap, Hotchner! She’s a woman who wants a baby! She’s on a mission! Bullying has nothing to do with it! You have something she needs!_

“O-Okay…but…” He swallowed. “I’ll do my best. B-But I might not be able to…”

Shaking two tablets into her hand, Haley gave him a puzzled look. “What are you talking about? I’ll take care of everything. You just lie still. You can even go back to sleep if you want.”

“W-Well, I think I have to do _something_ …”

It took a minute for Hotch’s words and their import to sink in. She’d given him the aspirin, washed down with coffee, and was testing the temperature of the hot water bottle when they clicked.

She reared back, rigid with indignation. “Aaron Hotchner! You think I’m going to…You think I’d…Against your _will_?... _Aaron_!”

Hotch realized his error. But it was too late. Haley wasn’t furious…but she was miffed. She warmed his muscles, massaging away as much soreness as she could. She fed him and coaxed more painkillers into him.

But when she was done, she told him she needed to get out of the house. She was going to the mall for an hour or so. Still, she bent down and kissed him goodbye, unable to ignore the sad, puppy eyes that broadcast his sincere apology more than words ever could.

After he heard her drive away, Hotch shook his head. _Well, **that** went well. Idiot._ He sighed.

Turning his head on the pillow, he noticed Haley’d forgotten to clear his breakfast plate. For usually neat and tidy Haley, it was a sure sign that she was more upset than she was letting on. He stared at it.

Congealed bits of egg dotted the surface.

Eggs. They were invading every facet of his life.

Hotch decided he’d try to get out of bed in a moment, but in the meantime he wanted a few minutes of diversion; anything to get his mind off the demands and missed opportunities of his wife’s ovulation. He managed to reach the television remote. Flicking it on, he let himself sink back into the bedding, appreciating the results of Haley’s ministrations.

But escape wouldn’t be that easy.

Easter loomed.

The TV threw images of eggs at him. Multi-colored, multi-flavored, chocolate, marshmallow. He switched channels. A documentary on the history of Faberge eggs. He tried again. A show devoted to omelet recipes.

Hotch hit the ‘off’ button. Burying his head in the pillow, he finally realized…

There _was_ no escape.

 

 

 

 


	3. Hen Session

Disconsolate, Haley wandered down the spacious, central promenade of Oakwood Mall.

She didn’t need to buy anything. She just wanted to be away from home, away from Aaron, while she pondered a few things. She cast desultory looks at her fellow mall-rats, taking automatic notice of fashion _faux pas_ , as well as those who looked stylish.

She’d been raised to assess such things. Appearances had been very important. But there had been other, deeper things she’d gleaned from her Mama. Even now, she could hear the beloved voice drawling its soft, honeyed, feminine wisdom into her seven-year-old ear.

“Haley, child, someday you’ll have little ones of your own. You remember now…a Southern mama raises Southern gentlemen and tigresses.” It had seemed like the most wonderful, grown-up confidence, shared in a sunlit sitting room amid parlor palms and ferns, swaying in the gentle draft of an overhead fan. And little Haley had done her best to follow the plan. She embraced tigress-hood with a natural talent that delighted her female relatives, and dismayed her female adversaries. She sharpened her claws on her peers, waiting for the right catch to come within reach.

She hadn’t even noticed Aaron at first.

He was just someone in her peripheral vision. A little awkward. A little sad. She hadn’t noticed…until some of her girlfriends did. It took their interest to make Haley see him. But when she finally brought him into her crosshairs, she thought he was breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly handsome. Killingly beautiful. She’d felt the hitch in her chest, but…clever tigress…she knew it was merely physical attraction. A suitable mate required so much more.

Aware of her occasional glances, Aaron had thrown his heart at her feet. He’d been funny and sweetly silly. But still, just another suitor for the lovely Miss Brooks’ hand.

Her parents hadn’t approved of him. He was too shy. Worse, there was something strange about his family. Well, in truth, about his father. Mr. Hotchner was successful enough, and they lived in a nice enough mansion. But Aaron’s father was also the town bully. Haley’s mother and father seemed to know something about young Aaron that they didn’t want to acknowledge. They avoided discussing him as a viable prospect for their daughter, encouraging her to look elsewhere.

Haley would have obeyed their wishes, but then the thorn incident happened. Even now, the memory sent heat through her like a shower of sparks.

Aaron had been making small, determined advances. Because he was growing into such a beautiful man, and because it made her friends jealous, Haley allowed them.

One day he appeared, a single rose held in his perfect teeth, eyes huge with hopeful desire. Eager, inexperienced Aaron hadn’t removed the thorns. When one pierced his lip, drawing a small droplet of blood and a surprised, little gasp from him as he let the stem fall to the ground, Haley hadn’t thought twice. Some instinct made her lean forward and lick the tiny hurt. Disbelieving Aaron had held so still. And his lip had been soft. And she’d heard for the first time the way his breathing changed as his adolescent body rose to the occasion.

In a matter of seconds, Haley was lost.

Even now, she smiled, hugging herself and making passersby wonder why this woman had stopped in the middle of the mall walkway, causing foot traffic to falter.

Recent feelings tempered by sweet memories, Haley looked around for a place to sit down and think. The Food Court was a convenient choice. Taking a seat at one of the round, wrought iron tables, she considered the gentle art of being a tigress…and getting what she wanted. Because that’s what it was all about in the end. Not just marriage, either. Life was like that, too.

She sighed, eyes going distant as she considered her spouse.

He was a strong man, but in a very different way from his wife.

Aaron’s strength came from a nobility of spirit that often baffled Haley. He took on his job because he wanted to make the world a better, safer place… _for others_. He entered his marriage because he loved her. Purely and without ulterior motive.

Haley’s strength came from steely resolve. She would brave anything to attain a worthy goal. For her, marriage was equal parts love and expectation. She’d entered it in part because she calculated that it would bring her what she wanted. A stunningly desirable husband other women eyed, but couldn’t have; a lifestyle of relative ease and comfort; and a family who would make her proud and the envy of all who knew her.

She was aware Aaron’s views were different. She loved his gentle spirit and brave heart, but his ability and willingness to sacrifice himself in the name of doing what he considered ‘right,’ mystified her. He never put his own welfare first. It was a kind of strength she acknowledged she would never understand.

But, to the matter at hand.

 _He was willing just now to let himself suffer in the name of doing his ‘husbandly duty.’_ She winced, shaking her head. _I don’t want him hurt…ever. I want him to enjoy every moment of becoming a father._ She expelled a gusty sigh. _Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on him. But…but…I want a baby!_

She leaned back in her chair, doing the exercise her mother had taught her. She envisioned the end she wanted and then traced backwards to find the means that would lead to it.

_I need him well. I need him on time. I need him fully willing. There has to be a way…_

“Mrs. Hotchner? Is that you? Mrs. Hotchner?”

Haley’d been mildly aware that something colorful and noisy had emerged from the buzz of background activity surrounding her, but she hadn’t paid it much mind. Until the hand touched her shoulder.

“Mrs. Hotchner? Are you okay?”

Haley blinked, returning from her musings, and recognized two of the women Aaron worked with. One was leaning over her with a concerned expression buried under too much makeup. _Garcia? Yes. That’s it. And…J.J…_

Haley took a deep breath, giving a polite smile to these women who probably got to know all about Aaron in ways he kept hidden from his wife. _They share his job…the life he keeps from me._

And even as she answered, Haley wondered if they might be useful. _After all, they care about him, too. Just not in the same way…at least, they **better** not._

“I’m sorry. I was someplace else. ‘Wool gathering’ my Mama would have called it.” She extended a hand in greeting. “I’m fine…thank you for asking…Ms. Garcia…” She hesitated. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t know your last name. Aaron just calls you ‘J.J.’”

“Jareau. But, please…J.J.’s fine.”

“And I’m Penelope.”

“Call me ‘Haley,’ …please.”

Both women continued to look down at her, eyes anxious. Haley recalled the snippets Aaron had shared about his colleagues over the years. Garcia… _Penelope_ , she corrected herself…was the flamboyant one; a quality that extended to her emotions as well as her appearance. But she was kind and sensitive, and abhorred the violence and cruelty that man inflicted on his brethren. J.J. was the calm liaison between the BAU and the rest of the world; a serene voice of reason.

 _And a voice of reason is exactly what I need right now_. This was an opportunity her tigress’ instincts told her she shouldn’t pass up.

Penelope was looking around, scanning the crowd. “Is Hotch…uh…your husband here?”

“No, he’s at home. Not feeling up to much at the moment. And calling him ‘Hotch’ is fine. I’ll know who you mean.” Haley’s smile was genuine. “But I _would_ like some company, if you’ve got the time?” Her hand traced a graceful arc which included the empty chairs at her table. “Please, sit down.”

J.J. and Garcia exchanged glances, shrugging. Certainly there was no harm in getting to know Hotch’s wife a little better…although they weren’t sure if the Unit Chief would be comfortable with his domestic life coming into contact with his professional one.

But it would only be for a moment. And after a morning of shopping, it would feel good to get off their feet. Especially since Garcia was wearing glittered wedgies whose height indicated their designer hadn’t constructed them with the endurance test of a mall workout in mind.

They sat.

And Haley felt a wave of relief wash over her. At least now she might be able to find out how Aaron had hurt himself.

She took a deep breath. “Ladies, can we talk?”

 


	4. Dumb Clucks

Hotch threw in the towel.

It dropped to the tiled, bathroom floor in a damp heap. He spared it a weary glance. _Kind of the way I feel…_ But he knew it could be a lot worse. Haley’s massage and insistence on aspirin had made it possible for him to get out of bed and make it into the shower. His gait was stiff-legged, which puzzled him. The unsub had punished his body from the waist up with his beefy-armed embrace. Unless he’d hurt himself when he’d fallen to the ground, released from the vise-like grip, everything in the nether regions should be working just fine.

_Which is why I should’ve just sucked it up and made love to my wife._

However, reaching down to retrieve the towel forced Hotch to admit that it wouldn’t have gone well had he tried. He drew in a sharp breath, wincing at the twinges and stabs coursing the length of his body.

 _I’m moving like an eighty-year-old man._ After due consideration, he amended that assessment. It wasn’t fair to eighty-year-old men. He knew several who were active and vital. _I’m moving like a **hundred** -year-old **arthritic** man._ Much better. More honest. More accurate. Less offensive to senior citizens.

With slow, careful movements he returned to the bedroom. Pulling sweat pants and a t-shirt from a drawer, he turned to inspect his body in the full length mirror. The compression injury had left faint bruising where his flak vest had been pressed into his skin. But it wasn’t bad. Still, it was enough to account for Haley’s vetoing any romantic interlude when she’d seen it this morning during his massage.

Turning again, he saw a long, reddened mark running the length of one thigh. That would explain the graceful-as-a-zombie walk. He didn’t even remember how he’d acquired it. Hotch shook his head.

_Haley didn’t sign up for this, you dumb cluck. She deserves a banquet. You look like the remains from a doggie bag that someone forgot in the back seat…for a month…during hot weather…._

Sighing, he dressed, hoping that moving about would help loosen his muscles a little more. His eye fell on the plate dotted with congealed bits of egg. Clearly, it was mocking him. He could almost hear it: _See, big, tough FBI-man? You couldn’t even **finish** an egg, let alone fertilize one. Hehehehe._

Hotch decided to show it who was boss. It deserved a run through the dishwasher. Picking up the plate, he went to the head of the stairs. He would have liked to bound down them with his usual agile vigor, but had to settle for taking them one at a time, slowly, one hand gripping the banister.

By the time he made it to the bottom, he was prepared to reconsider the egg-stained plate’s claim to dominance.

By the time he reached the kitchen, he was beginning to see it from a whole new perspective. Scrambled, uneaten, and ready to be scraped into the trash.

Hotch knew just how it felt. _My brother, the egg…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

The ladies settled in with diet soft drinks and a communal plate of fries.

Haley gave her companions a tentative smile; unsure how to broach the subject of Aaron in a way that neither side would feel betrayed confidences. It was J.J. who sensed her discomfort and took the lead, providing a gentle transition to discuss the one person they all had in common; and leaving room for Haley to back out, should she reconsider.

“So Hotch is taking it easy at home?”

“Yes….No….I mean…” Haley glanced from one set of eyes to the other. Both interested. Both sympathetic. _And when will I get a chance like this again? To talk to someone who understands, as Bureau employees **and** as women?_ Taking a deep breath, she jumped in with both feet.

“Aaron’s not feeling too well.”

“Ohhhh…no. What’s wrong?” Garcia’s empathy encouraged Haley to elaborate.

“W-e-l-l…that’s kind of what I was hoping to find out from you guys.” She read incomprehension on Penelope’s face; dawning realization on J.J.’s. “What happened to him? He’s hurting and I…I just want to know what happened. Aaron never talks about it, but…he’s mine, and I think I have a right to know.” She swallowed. “Please?”

“I…I…I don’t know!” Garcia hadn’t seen the team return. She’d been in her lair. Morgan had dropped by as usual. Also as usual, she’d asked ‘All my babies home safe?’ Flashing his cocksure grin, he’d said ‘You know it, Mama.’ He’d sauntered out after a few more pleasantries, headed for his desk and the post-case paperwork required of every agent. Garcia was at a loss…but J.J. wasn’t.

She hadn’t been in the field with the team when the unsub had been taken down, but she’d known Hotch was uncomfortable on the flight home. Plus, all final paperwork passed over J.J.’s desk. She was the hub for such things, compiling and organizing files before they moved on to Hotch, and then to the Section Chief. She’d seen the account of how the unsub had been taken into custody. And she’d seen the medical report on Hotch. It hadn’t looked too bad, but clearly Haley was concerned. J.J. didn’t think it would cross any lines to tell a wife not to worry.

She licked her lips, searching for the right words. “Hotch got a little, uh, _squeezed_ …that’s all.”

Haley leaned forward. “‘Squeezed?’ What does that mean? What happened to him?”

J.J. noticed Garcia was listening with interest equal to Haley’s. “There was a little altercation with the unsub right at the end of it all. Yesterday.”

Hotch’s wife’s eyes looked slightly terrified. “Someone beat Aaron?”

“I didn’t hear about that!” Garcia’s intensity wasn’t doing anything to help her co-worker adhere to as minimal a description as possible. Just the opposite.

J.J. sighed, shaking her head. She was just making things worse, leaving too much to the imagination. Time for full disclosure. “Okay, okay. You didn’t hear about it Penelope, because it’s not a big deal. Really.” She returned her focus to Haley. “Hotch was first in the door when they found the unsub. The guy was really big. He got his arms around Hotch and… _smushed_ …him a little.”

She could hear Haley swallow from across the table, a horrified look on her face. “He tried to crush Aaron? Tried to kill him?”

J.J. sat back with a small shrug, hoping if she made light of the incident, it would ease Haley’s doubts. “That’s what unsubs do. But it wasn’t bad. The others were there and it only lasted a second.” She could tell by the way Hotch’s wife blinked that degrees of ‘badness’ didn’t figure into her calculations. _Any_ harm to her husband was too much.

J.J. hastened to reassure her. “He got checked out. It’s required whenever _anything_ physical goes down. Seriously…he’s okay.”

“He’s hurting!” Haley’s eyes were beginning to look a little too moist.

“He’s probably just sore.” J.J. tried to inject as much confidence into her voice as possible. “In a couple of days he won’t even remember it. He’ll be fine. Just give him a day or two.”

Haley wiped at each eye in turn, looking away from her tablemates. “It’ll be too late by then.” Her words had been so soft, it was almost as though she’d been talking to herself.

Garcia and J.J. exchanged puzzled looks. “Too late for what? Haley? Too late?”

The tearful face turned back, nodding. “Too late.”

Haley chewed on her lip, debating her next step. She needed someone to talk to. It might not meet with Aaron’s approval, but he didn’t need to know. If he could keep some things from her in order to make his life more palatable, she didn’t see why she couldn’t do the same. She brushed aside the small difference of keeping quiet about something versus _telling_ something. And telling it to people involved in Aaron’s work. It went against the man’s efforts to keep his personal and professional lives separate.

But this was something Haley wanted. And she was confident that, in the long run, it would be beneficial to Aaron, too. _If_ he ever found out. She fixed J.J. and Penelope with a determined look.

“Aaron and I…we’re trying to start a family…”

The faces across the table beamed with sudden joy. Happy exclamations and words of congratulations tumbled over each other, coming to an abrupt halt when Haley shook her head, burying her face in her hands.

“We’re trying…but it’s not going so well.”

And then the tears she’d been holding back…fell.

Giving each other uneasy looks, Garcia and J.J. wondered if they might be entering dangerous territory. But it was too late to turn back. They couldn’t walk away. So they offered the weeping woman napkins and solace, and waited for her to continue, hoping they wouldn’t regret hearing whatever else Haley had to say.

 

 


	5. Hatching Plans

Hotch left the adversarial egg-plate in the dishwasher.

There wasn’t enough to do a full load, but he thought he’d demonstrated his superiority by rinsing the thing to within an inch of its life. _That’ll teach you…Mocking a man when he’s down..._

With ginger steps he entered his home office, looking for some useful activity suitable for a body in less than stellar condition. His sigh was a bit resigned. He had a few active files in his briefcase. Haley didn’t like him bringing his work home when it contained graphic pictorials of bodies and crime scenes; luridly detailed autopsy reports…

_So why does she want me to talk about the stuff, if she doesn’t want me to bring any of it with me? Where’s the line that I’m supposed to toe?_

Really, this marriage business just got more and more complex the longer it went on. Hotch had the feeling he was missing something, but he didn’t even know how to ask what it might be. Haley seemed so sure of herself and of where things should be headed that it was easy…nice, even…to let her steer the whole ship.

In truth, Hotch doubted his own views on domestic relationships. He’d never had role models worthy of emulation. When it came to how to be a husband, he was making it up as he went along. He’d seen plenty of examples of what he wanted to avoid. So he just went with his gut instinct on most occasions. So far, it had worked out pretty well. Most of the time it was a joy to come home where he’d be cuddled and fed and nuzzled and warmed.

It was when new issues surfaced, like the question of parenthood, that he’d stumble a bit before finding his footing. He needed time to learn how to navigate new terrain. And it was difficult to flip off the switch in his brain that accessed all the horrible things he’d seen that could befall a child.

It had been months since they’d agreed to throw out all methods of birth control, and Aaron still felt torn. On the one hand he was in grateful awe of the fact that someone wanted _him_ to be a father. When Haley had crept up beside him, letting her breath tickle the fine hairs deep inside his ear, and whispered, “I want your baby,” the sensation had been indescribable. Hotch had shivered, feeling as though all his internal organs were involved in some sort of visceral pole vault competition, vying to see which could jump the highest.

But when the disbelieving, giddy joy of the moment passed, it had left an undercurrent of terror in its wake. Like the luminol glow that remained once blood was washed away.

Hotch swallowed. _What if things go wrong? What if something bad happens to Haley? Women **do** risk their lives in childbirth… What if I’m a lousy father? What if…_

He shook his head, loosening the hold of all those cobweb phantoms that danced in his brain, reminding him of just how horrible life can turn between one beat of a heart and the next.

_You can’t live that way; always expecting disaster. It’s cowardly. And you can’t let thoughts like that guide decisions that involve Haley. It’s not fair to her._

Hotch toyed with the latch on his briefcase, finding he wasn’t in the mood for work. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do…

… _It’d be great if I had a kid to play with. There’re so many fun things I never got to do growing up. It’d be like the best gift in the world to have a son or a daughter to do them with now._

And the fears fled into the background. They didn’t disappear entirely, but, for the moment, they were replaced by visions of circuses and kites and days at the seashore.

Aaron felt a little bit of appetite returning. He felt restless, anxious.

He wondered what Haley was doing…

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Don’t cry. _Please_ don’t cry. If people start crying, I’m no good at _all_!” Garcia felt her own eyes brimming in concert with Haley’s. Her big, empathic heart ached for anyone’s distress. On top of that, her eyeliner and mascara were in imminent danger of dripping down her cheeks. “ _Please_ stop!”

J.J.’s calm concern overrode her importunate co-worker. “Haley…” The liaison ducked her head, wishing she’d never agreed to sit down with Hotch’s wife. “Haley, I’m not sure we’re the ones you should be talking to about this.”

Sniffing into a damp napkin, Haley gulped back her tears, surprised at the force of her own tempestuous reaction. _It must be frustration from the months of trying._ She fixed J.J. with a sorrowful eye. “There _is_ no one else. My mother and sister don’t understand what it’s like being married to an FBI agent. They think it just means he wears a nice suit and keeps his body in shape. Every time I’ve tried talking to them, I end up _defending_ Aaron and that’s not what I need.”

Haley lowered her eyes. Admitting the next piece of the puzzle that composed her always made her feel… _lesser_ , somehow. “I don’t have many friends. I need someone who understands a woman’s side of things, as well as the obstacles Aaron’s work creates.” Her voice went small and soft. “If I can’t talk to you, there’s no one left to try.”

J.J. still might have objected. It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest Haley talk to Hotch and no one else until whatever the issue was, was sorted out. But the words died before they passed her lips under the tragic expressions of the others.

Feeling a little as though she were knowingly stepping into an open elevator shaft of indeterminate depth, J.J. admitted defeat. If she and Garcia were really Haley’s last resort, she couldn’t turn away. _But I have a b-a-d feeling about this…_ Aloud, the liaison projected serenity to the best of her ability. “So…” she gave Penelope a last imploring look, but met only a reflection of Haley’s tearful hope. “So, things aren’t going so well? With, uh…getting a family started?”

Realizing she’d won, Haley hiccupped past the last of her tears, gratitude evident in every line of her face. She nodded, eager to grasp the lifeline J.J. was throwing her. “We’ve been trying for a while.” She looked down again, uneasy now that she’d been granted tacit permission to discuss a delicate subject. “I didn’t think it would take this long.” Deep breath. “Things just aren’t working the way they need to…” She glanced up from beneath her lashes. “…you know?”

Garcia thought she did. Her expressive features lit with inspiration. “Oh, but there are all _kinds_ of things you can try! I mean, if the Hotch-Rocket needs a little boost…gosh…there are, um…toys…and lotions, and all _sorts_ of really fun fantasy stuff, and…” Her eyes sparked with interest. “…and I know some videos that I can pretty much guarantee will get _any_ guy’s motor running…and…”

During Penelope’s monologue, Haley’s expression had morphed from incomprehension to disbelief all the way through to shock, to the accompaniment of several different shades of deepening blush. Her mouth hung open for a moment until she recovered the power of speech. “No! What?! NO!!”

“Garcia!” J.J.’s voice cut through the continuing list of items on the tech analyst’s menu of lustful delights.

“Huh? What?” Brought up short, Penelope pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose, gazing about with a baffled expression, unsure why she’d been interrupted.

“I don’t think you and Haley are, uh…on the same page.” J.J.’s eyes tracked to the still-gaping Unit Chief’s wife. “…That’s not what you meant, is it?”

“N-no…” Small town Haley swallowed, wondering how Penelope knew so much…hearsay?...or personal experience… “No. Aaron’s fine… _great_ , in fact. The problem is, well, there’s only a small window of opportunity each month and Aaron hasn’t been able to, uh, squeak through before it slams shut.”

“Timing? That’s the problem?” J.J. sat back, her mind trained to circumvent human reluctance and lack of cooperation, latching onto the issue. _Thrilling_ to it, if the truth be known.

“I see how that could derail things, given how Hotch’s always on call and sometimes out of town for days on end. But…” She turned a sly smile on her companions.

“Let me think about it. It might take some teamwork, but I bet we can find a way to prop that window open long enough to push Hotch through it.”

Haley finally smiled. She’d come to the mall looking for some breathing room.

But she’d found accomplices.

 


	6. Cracking the Shell

They knew when it went down…

…it would go down fast.

Even planning for as many contingencies as possible, the ladies understood there were potential pitfalls at every turn.

And the biggest one was Haley.

Garcia and J.J. were continually surprised that someone so determined could also be so…squeamish? They hadn’t found a word yet that was accurately descriptive without being a tad cruel. Or catty. The biggest stumbling block in the initial stages of planning was trying to convince Haley that she might not be able to get her husband home and into the bedroom. That was her ideal scenario. When she bowed to peer pressure and said she’d be willing to consider the living room couch as an option, J.J. and Penelope knew they were in trouble.

“Sometimes you just have to go with the flow, Haley.” J.J. did her best, but she found it draining to mince around the matter of procreation in a way that was sensitive to Mrs. Hotchner’s Southern Belle upbringing. “In the interest of timing, you might have to forego the…uh… _rules_ you usually live by.”

Haley had given her head the tiniest shake, blinking at her co-conspirators with wary eyes. She was having trouble getting over that particular hurdle.

“Take him!” Garcia’s patience wasn’t as enduring as J.J.’s. “You’re just gonna have to throw him down and take him! It’s okay! Just _take_ him!”

“I…I…I…”

“Yes! You…you…you!” Garcia reached into her oversized, leopard-spotted, sequined bag…an accessory that looked well-suited to transporting pornographic supplies. She pulled out a slim DVD case emblazoned with a couple, heads thrown back in passionate abandon, grimacing with pleasure. She’d been hawking the value of visual aids for three weeks. Not to get Hotch in the mood, but to get Haley to loosen up and accept that variations on a theme were permissible in the carnal arena.

The tech analyst leaned over, shoving the DVD into Haley’s demure, little handbag. “You don’t have to watch it with him. He doesn’t even have to know you _ever_ watched it. But _watch_ it! _Watch and learn!_ ”

Haley swallowed. She’d glimpsed the blurb on the disc’s jacket. ‘Dora and Ian explore the pleasures of surprise sex! Everywhere! Every way!’ For a moment it looked as though she expected the thing to self-eject from her purse, knowing it was in territory alien and possibly hostile to its titillating intensions. When she took a ragged breath, tucking the DVD deeper where it would be hidden from notice, J.J. and Garcia pulled back a little, relief written across their respective features.

“Okay.” Haley’s voice was small. She was crossing a line. Mrs. Brooks’ daughter hadn’t been raised to even acknowledge that such…aids…existed. But Hotch’s wife really wanted that baby. Just the night before, he had visited her dreams again. And it _was_ a ‘he.’ The thought of presenting Aaron with a son was enough incentive to boost her over the barrier she believed all well-bred women erected in the name of polite propriety.

Ever the diplomat, J.J. placed a gentle hand over Haley’s. “Look…we all have to work together to get this done as, uh… _effectively_ as possible. Think of it as homework. God knows Penelope and I have done our share. This is yours.” Then she hit on the one concept that would quell Haley’s fears. “Just because you’re _watching_ that woman in the show, doesn’t mean you’re _like_ her. Not at all.”

In her private thoughts, the liaison was recalling all the information she and Garcia had digested about ovulation and the optimum conditions for fertilizing an egg. It wasn’t information either would have delved into unless they were in a family-planning frame of mind themselves. _The least Haley can do is sit through a triple-X-rated DVD. At least it’ll be more entertaining than the stuff **we** had to read._

The Unit Chief’s wife compressed her lips into a thin, resolute line. Giving a curt nod, she swallowed audibly. “I’ll do it.” It sounded as though she were accepting some mission of doom from which she never expected to return.

“Good. We’ll talk again afterwards.” J.J. gave a warm, approving smile.

Garcia just snorted, shaking her head. _If watching stuff like that was the punishment Haley makes it seem, I’d be looking for ways to be a really, really bad girl who needs to be reprimanded at least three times a week._

 

xxxxxxx

 

 Two days later, Hotch wasn’t sure what was happening.

The team hadn’t been called out, so after a day of meetings and paperwork, he’d been able to get home at a decent hour.

Something was going on with Haley.

He didn’t think she was ovulating; she usually kept him apprised of that now that they were trying to have a child. But… _something_ …had changed. He’d walked in the door, dropping his keys and briefcase on the small table in the hall entry. Hearing the sound of movements…maybe something on the TV?...deeper in the house, he’d called out.

“Haley? I’m home.”

He’d turned his back, opening the top drawer in the little table. He usually kept his gun there while he was off-duty. And every time he stashed the weapon, he scolded himself for not procuring a more secure method of storage. He knew if a child entered the picture, there’d be no more procrastinating on that particular baby-proofing issue. But for now…

…from behind, a hand reached around him. “Here, Honey…let me help with that.” She’d moved in with such stealth, Hotch hadn’t heard her. It surprised him. It surprised him even more when she slipped the gun from his hip, dropping it into the drawer and sliding it shut.

It flabbergasted him when she didn’t stop there.

His breath caught when, without a word, she leaned against his back, fingers busy with his belt. Hotch held very still, uncertainty warring with arousal. “H-Haley?”

“Shhhhh….Shhhhhh….”

The belt was pulled off; the slithery sound of leather against wool harmonizing with Hotch’s sudden gasp. “Haley? Are you oka…”

“Shhhhh….Don’t talk, Aaron.” Her voice was sultry and a little hoarse, at once predatory and filled with desire.

Hotch did as he was told, feeling buttons and zippers releasing, submitting to his wife’s deft fingers. He kept waiting for her to suggest they adjourn to the bedroom. Or at least the living room couch.

The order never came.

The same, however, could not be said of Hotch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The little table hadn’t been meant for such…athletic…use. By the time they were finished, one leg had broken, giving the abused piece of furniture a rakish tilt. Hotch decided he quite liked it.

He also decided he’d never felt so delightfully ravished.

But he had no idea what had caused his prim, modest wife to jump him.

Despite being a bit puzzled, Hotch decided he quite liked that, too.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley tucked the forbidden DVD deep inside the delicate, floral purse she planned to use tomorrow when she would meet once again with J.J. and Penelope at their customary table in the mall Food Court.

She’d done her homework.

They’d be proud.

She grinned like a smug, Cheshire cat. They were one step closer to the successful completion of Operation Ovulation. And as a bonus, Aaron had dozed off with a small, satisfied smile…something she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Haley wondered if Penelope had any other _study materials_ available for viewing.

The tigress was on the hunt…


	7. Scrambling for Secrets

Hotch woke up with the feeling that something had happened.

But he…couldn’t…quite…recall…

Normally, such sensations would resolve themselves into dread; the aftereffects of his job, phantoms from the field, wearing the faces of the dead. But this time…this time he felt warm and snug and peaceful. It worried him.

Frowning, he couldn’t remember why he would feel that way.

And then he could.

The slow grin spreading across his face reached all the way to the corners of his eyes, slanting them upward. He knew Haley loved him, but sometimes he wondered about his physical desirability. She accepted his advances, but never made any herself.

Until last night.

Until…the hall table…

 _Did that really happen? Was it for real?_ He turned his head on the pillow and caught his breath. Separated by less than an inch, Haley’s eyes were half-lidded, studying him…devouring him.

Hotch swallowed, his own eyes going wide. A tiny smile played across his wife’s features. If Hotch had ever bothered to analyze his own expressions, he would have recognized a miniature, feminized version of his own. A softer, baby fox.

But Hotch had never spent more time than necessary before a mirror. So he blinked and swallowed again. “G-Good morning.”

Her smile broadened. “Y-e-s…Yes, it is.”

Hotch was helpless before that _look_. Wordless, in a matter of seconds, husband and wife were wearing matching grins. For Haley, years fell away. She saw again the quirky, silly man who’d tried to bring her a rose in his teeth. _He’d smiled just like that…that’s when the thorn pierced his lip._

To Hotch’s delighted surprise, she reenacted the moment; leaning in and giving his bottom lip a tender lick. Followed by another. And another. And more.

Aaron’s day began as pleasingly as the previous one had ended.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“You okay, man?”

Morgan cast a concerned look toward his boss. Things had been…different…all morning. Others might not notice, but Derek Morgan kept Hotch under close observation.

The meaner, more politically-oriented members of the Bureau would say it was to spot a weakness; one alpha male casing another, looking for a vulnerability to attack in the quest for career advancement.

They would be wrong.

Morgan guarded Hotch. He kept an eye on him, because the Unit Chief was so adept at ignoring his own welfare. So, if one of those sly-eyed subordinates with knowing smirks had ever bothered to ask Morgan why, he would have told them ‘Because _somebody_ has to.’ Then he would have bristled, making certain they understood the inadvisability of entertaining unworthy suspicions about his motives.

This morning Hotch seemed distracted. It would have been normal behavior in light of the case they’d just received. Hotch sometimes drifted to a place where the images from crime scenes came alive. This usually happened at the very beginning. Morgan thought it helped Hotch place himself where he could study details, empathize with both victim and unsub in advance of scrutinizing the actual scene.

Morgan was used to the subtle play of emotion across Hotch’s face at such times. Usually grim. Sometimes angry. Always sad.

But never, never, _ever_ …blissful…content…happy. Distracted.

Receiving no answer, Morgan reached over to where his boss was giving a fond smile to the tea brewing in his cup. “Hey! Hotch!” He gave the suit-clad shoulder a gentle buffet.

“Huh!? What?”

There was a slightly glazed look to Hotch’s eyes. Morgan narrowed his own, subjecting the man’s visage to professional analysis.

It didn’t take long.

Morgan had seen the same signs on his own face in the mirror on many occasions. His brows rose, a smile making its irresistible appearance as he turned away, finding the preparation of his coffee to be suddenly, inordinately absorbing. _He got lucky! Boss-man got lucky this morning!_

“Morgan? You need something?” The trademark scowl was struggling to return.

Morgan shook his head, trying not to chuckle outright. “No. No.” He mastered the impulse to laugh. “Just wondering how you were doing this morning, Hotch. That’s all.”

“Fine, thank you. You?”

“Same.” _But not as good as you, Dog!!_

 

xxxxxxx

 

It was wheels up in thirty.

And it was a cop-killer.

And it was in Idaho.

Clear across the country.

Facing the likelihood of being gone for a few days, Morgan used part of his prep time to touch bases with Garcia. He couldn’t leave without telling her goodbye; making some semi-ribald comment in passing. It was tradition by now. It was how two friends exchanged tiny pieces of their hearts in hopes that it would ensure they’d see each other again, reclaiming those fragments and becoming whole once more the next time they were in each other’s company.

As Morgan neared Garcia’s lair, he pricked his ears up. The door was propped open, half a hip and one leg he recognized as J.J.’s, bracing it. Her tone sounded urgent.

“It _might_ happen! We just have to be ready. Well… _she_ has to be ready.”

There was Garcia’s flighty, staccato reply. Morgan couldn’t discern separate words, but her tone was equal in urgency to J.J.’s.

“Penelope! I have to go. Once you get the info to us on the jet, _you_ go have lunch with her. Or at least meet her for a few minutes and see how she’s doing.” The liaison gave a small, exasperated sigh. “Just don’t snap at her. Try to be patient. She’s from a different culture…not like us.”

J.J. began to pull out of the room, backing further into the hallway. “Just keep reminding yourself how great it’d be if Hotch has a b…” Her eye fell on approaching Morgan. It widened. Abrupt silence followed.

“Hey, ladies.” He gave his best tell-me-everything-because-I’m-sexy smile. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing. Just canceling a lunch appointment.” J.J. sent a worried, yet reprimanding glare toward Penelope. _Please don’t fall prey to Morgan! This is a **secret** , or Hotch will wilt in total, utter embarrassment!_ “I’ll be checking in when I can.” She glanced at her watch. “Fifteen minutes to wheels up, Morgan.”

J.J.’d hoped he’d take the hint and hurry away to do a final check on his go-bag, grab a last few snacks from the vending machine. But Morgan lounged against the doorjamb, so at ease he bordered on looking insolent. J.J. gave up, walking away to do her own chores before heading for the airstrip.

Morgan waited until the liaison was out of earshot. Acting as though he had all the time in the world, he insinuated himself into the chair beside Garcia’s. He armed himself with that smile again.

“S-o-o-o? G-a-r-c-i-a-a-a?”

It was remarkable how two little words combined with a provocative drawl could exercise such power over poor Penelope. She swallowed, knowing she was in trouble if he persisted. Knowing the privacy of Hotch and his potential progeny rested just inside her trembling, fuchsia-bright lips…where words threatened to burst forth and compromise the sanctity of her leader’s home life.

“Yes, my Hot Fudge Sundae?”

Morgan narrowed his dark eyes at her, debating if he had enough time to break her with charm and sex appeal. “I know when you guys are up to something, Baby Girl.” He leaned close enough for his cologne to entice her. “So exactly _what_ are you up to?”

“Up?...Up?...uh…not up…no…nothing’s up…” _Except, if all goes well, our fearless leader, but I can’t tell you that!_

Morgan relented, relaxing back into his chair. He opted for a different tactic. Camaraderie. The invitation to indulge the natural desire to share a secret. Which would be so much easier to do if one were led to believe it was already common knowledge. Morgan had heard J.J.’s last words concerning lunch with some unknown ‘her’ and mention of the Unit Chief. _‘…how great it’d be if Hotch has a b…’…?_ He toyed with one of Garcia’s bedazzled writing implements, fluffing the pink feathers where an eraser would normally reside.

“So, Hotch seems a little more relaxed these days, don’tcha think?”

Penelope regarded her friend with round, shimmering eyes almost as bedazzled as her pencils and pens. But for all its glamour, it was the look a small sparrow might give a cobra; entranced by its own impending doom.

Morgan allowed himself a small smile…less suggestive than his previous one. “And he looks kind of… _satisfied_ …ya know?”

Garcia’s dilated pupils spoke volumes to him. _I’m on the right track._

He leaned forward again, the interrogator ready to take a leap and shatter the reserve of his interviewee by using her accomplice’s own words in a show of certain knowledge. “S-o-o-o, how great would it be if Hotch has a b…” Garcia was trapped, unable to break away. _Break? Is that it? Was there some luncheon meeting with someone about changes in the Bureau hierarchy?_ Time was growing short. He had to take a chance. “…a _break_.” She blinked behind her lime green frames.

 _Uh-oh, I’m losing her. Last chance! Go for it **now**!_ “… a break from Strauss? If they transfer her?”

Garcia’s lips trembled, pressing together in a crooked line with the effort of keeping something from bursting out. _The secret? Did I get it?_

But the braying blast of laughter that exploded forth as she bent over her knees didn’t bode well for Morgan. Disgusted with his lack of success, he stood, kissed the top of her inclined head, and left her lair.

He’d failed. But Morgan was, by his own description, relentless. Something was going on behind the scenes. He always kept Hotch under surveillance. Now he’d do the same to J.J.

There was a secret afoot. And Morgan knew three things where secrets were concerned.

One: they couldn’t be kept if shared with even one person.

Two: it was fun to ferret them out.

And three: he was a master ferret.

It was only a matter of time.


	8. Rotten Luck

Once again: Gideon…NO.  Rossi…YES.  Elle…NO.  Prentiss…YES.  And if anyone wants to argue about it…be aware: it could be a lot worse. I could bring in Smurfs.

xxxxxxx

xxxxxxx

 

 

J.J. was keenly aware of Morgan’s proximity.

Normally, he’d take a seat in a far corner of the jet so his ipod, set to a volume that bled past his earbuds, wouldn’t disturb the others. But this time, once the initial briefing was over, he’d loitered about until everyone else was seated. Then he’d gravitated to a place where both Hotch and J.J. were in his line of sight.

And J.J. didn’t even think he had his music on. The little buds in his ears were for show. _Camouflage. He’s on the alert._ She heaved a deep sigh. _I wonder if Garcia cracked and he knows…_

There was only one way to find out. As surreptitiously as possible, the liaison pulled out her phone. Holding it low in her lap, she texted her accomplice in Operation Ovulation.

\--Garcia, Morgan knows?--

\--NO!--

\--R U sure?--

\--YES! But FWIW suspects us--

\--Y?--

\--Herd U--

\--OS!--

\--IKR!--

J.J. glanced up. Morgan’s half-lidded eyes glinted at her. The rest of his face was impassive; a sure sign that his mind was sorting through possibilities and strategies. She wasted no time signing off.

\--TTYL--

She looked up again, meeting his calculating stare with her most placid, inscrutable expression. _Do your worst, Mr. Profiler. This is the face that can look calm no matter the provocation. It’s a job skill, same as yours. Let the games begin._

However, a few hours later, J.J. began to rethink keeping Morgan in the dark.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Except for the fact that he’d snuffed out four lives…four Boise police officers…the unsub would have qualified as a laughable stereotype.

He was every inch a survivalist who’d never actually had to survive without Mommy’s and Daddy’s support. He’d used his generous allowance to purchase ammo, firearms, camo-wear, a Jeep, emergency rations, and…a secluded piece of land located in the rugged terrain near the tiny town of Clayton.

Population: twenty-six souls.

Plus one murderer with a penchant for shooting cops in the back.

Once he’d assured himself of a place in every local newspaper’s headlines, Timothy Logan had fled with his supplies, and his guns, and what his stunned parents said were some of his favorite possessions from saner days. There was no question in anyone’s mind that he’d holed up in his newly-constructed, concrete cabin outside Clayton. As the team made preparations to follow the killer, described by those who knew him as ‘fanciful,’ ‘given to escapism,’ ‘really into vintage sci-fi,’ J.J. studied the topographical map of the area, chewing on her lip and giving Morgan sidelong glances.

She knew she was letting recent experience affect her judgment, but she couldn’t keep the loop from running and re-running through her mind: Hotch, crushed between an unsub’s arms. In a split second, suffering almost invisible injuries that, according to Haley, had nonetheless immobilized him for days.

J.J. hadn’t expected to be drawn into the Hotchner’s private lives so deeply. But she had to admit, she was beginning to find herself personally vested in Haley’s goal, and the conditions attendant upon its accomplishment. _Can’t let anything sideline Hotch this time. Can’t let it happen. Must keep him safe._ Her eye traveled to Morgan once again, the Unit Chief’s unofficial, self-proclaimed bodyguard…who was still keeping her under surveillance.

Morgan saw the glances. The case came first, of course.  But he was still intrigued by whatever secret J.J. and Garcia were keeping. The fact that it concerned his boss made its discovery border on mandatory. Morgan believed the quest to have Hotch’s back made all information important. The team was almost ready to head to Clayton. He still had a few minutes. Catching J.J.’s eye, he approached.

As Morgan came closer, the liaison’s mind raced, accustomed to finding its way through the trickiest mazes of human emotions and motivations. She’d always marveled at the fact that Morgan, who had long eschewed belief in such things as astrology or spiritualism, was so compatible with Garcia…someone who loved horoscopes and crystals; who swore and lived by her intuition. J.J. sometimes thought that part of the tech analyst’s attraction for Morgan was that very immersion in the arts and beliefs he found most baffling. So, it gave her an idea…

Before he could speak, J.J. made a preemptive strike, taking control of the conversation.

“Morgan…hey…Are you guys about ready? Or do you have a minute?”

The agent had been anticipating avoidance at best, a brush-off at worst. An open invitation to talk was unexpected. But neither was he going to be sidetracked from the main issue of exposing secrets. He glanced around to where the others were checking weapons, tightening Kevlar vests.

“I got a little time. What’s up?”

“Can you take extra care of Hotch out there?” J.J. let her natural concern show in eyes that implored understanding and aid.

Morgan frowned, taking a second, closer look at the Unit Chief, bent over fastening his ankle holster more securely. “I’ve always got his back.” He returned his regard to J.J. “Why? Anything I should know that I don’t already?” _Like…a **secret**?!_

J.J. shook her head, letting an edge of exasperation creep into her voice. “I don’t know. It’s Garcia. She’s been pestering me for days now.” She sighed. “Has a feeling something bad’s gonna happen to Hotch. On a case. In the field.”

Morgan looked skeptical. “Like what?”

“That’s the problem.” J.J. shrugged. “She doesn’t know. It’s intuition…you know what she’s like…you know how that is.”

That brought out a grin as Derek imagined his Baby Girl consulting one of the sites she frequented devoted to fortunes and spells. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He spared Hotch another glance. “Sure. I’ll keep him in one piece. But…” He felt he had a bargaining chip now. “…I want something, too. A trade. What were you guys talking about this morning?” J.J.’s brow creased in bewilderment. “When I was coming to tell Garcia goodbye. Something about…lunch…,” he prompted. “And it being great if Hotch got something?”

“Oh! _That_ …” Inwardly, the liaison was congratulating herself on managing to guard Hotch’s privacy _and_ his body in one well-crafted encounter with the relentless Morgan. “Garcia’s so worried, when the case came in she was gonna blow off a lunch date she’d been planning with an old friend of hers.” J.J. half turned away, demonstrating a convincing lack of concern for revealing the true meaning of the conversation Morgan had overheard.

“I wanted her to go anyway, but she said she was too worried about Hotch…just had this _feeling_ he’d get in trouble. So I said, instead, she should put all that worry-energy into thinking how great it’d be if Hotch busted the unsub in record time, and we all came home before she even missed us. You know…put that out into the universe instead of all the negative energy…”

She could see Morgan’s eyes darting. He’d rather be confronting threats in the field than in danger of getting involved in a discussion about karmic reciprocity. He gave a relieved nod, seeing the others ready to go.

“Don’t worry. And tell Garcia I’ll stick to Hotch like green on grass…Gotta go.”

“Be safe!” J.J. called after his retreating back.

The words were a sincere blessing meant to follow every member of her team.

Especially hopeful Daddy-to-be, Hotch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It took hours of dusty driving to find the bolt-hole into which Timothy Logan had withdrawn.

The agents followed protocol, giving him every chance to surrender before storming the reinforced walls of his cabin. But there was no response. In truth, they didn’t know if the killer was inside or camped out with his state-of-the-art, brand new, survival gear, watching them from a hillside.

Patience growing thin, Hotch made the call.

“Prentiss, Rossi…take the back. Reid, keep the windows covered. Morgan, you’re with me. Front door. Doesn’t look like he spent as much armoring the doors and windows as he did the walls.”

Morgan shook his head. “Not the brightest way to build when you claim survival’s your game.”

Before they’d reached the steps leading up to the tiny porch, Rossi and Prentiss were back, shaking their heads in disbelief.

“Idiot doesn’t have a back door.”

“If he’s in there, he’s trapped.”

Hotch squinted at the silent cabin. “That could make him more dangerous.” He glanced at Morgan. “Ready?”

The agent nodded. Weapons drawn they converged on the porch with its spindly railings. Crouched, ready to spring into action, Morgan glanced through one of the small windows fronting the building. There was no time to shout a warning about the man standing within, holding some sort of firearm.

J.J.’s pleas…Garcia’s worries…flashed through Derek’s mind. Brain speeding with adrenalin, synapses clicked. _Holy shit! What if Baby Girl’s right?! Hotch’s about to get shot!!_

Faster than most men could move, Morgan grabbed the back of Hotch’s shirt collar protruding above his vest. With strength powered by desperation, he heaved the Unit Chief over the side railing, hearing his surprised cry as he landed in the massed foliage growing against the cabin’s perimeter.

Following through on his forward motion, Morgan burst the surprisingly flimsy door and came face to face with the threat he’d seen through the window: a life-size, cardboard cutout figure of Leonard Nimoy as Mr. Spock…brandishing a phaser…no doubt set on stun…

The one-room cabin was deserted.

“Morgan!! What the _hell_!!??”

Voices were shouting warnings outside that didn’t immediately register on Derek. When he turned, he found Rossi had backed him up. Having verified the absence of their unsub, the two exited to find Prentiss and Reid staring at a floundering Hotch, enmeshed in verdant greenery, his shirt torn where Morgan had gripped it. His pants ripped from the fall.

“Don’t touch him!!” Reid’s voice was shrill with warning. It halted Morgan and Rossi mid-stride from going to their leader’s aid.

“Why the hell did you do that, Agent?!” Hotch’s voice grated with anger as he struggled his way out of the shrubbery.

“Thought I saw a guy with a gun aimed at you, man. Sorry.” Morgan noticed a few sly grins and shaking heads among the onlookers. He turned to Reid, wondering why the young doctor was staring at Hotch with such a mixture of sympathy and horror. “What? Reid? What is it?”

Spencer gave him a mournful look. “It’s poison ivy, Morgan. You ripped his clothes open and threw him into poison ivy!”

 


	9. Fertility Futility

Garcia’s meeting with Haley was brief, but encouraging.

Hotch’s wife was an apt student. She was also finding that she enjoyed the element of surprise that she’d been bringing to the latest amorous encounters with her spouse. The look of delight on his face when she’d been the instigator erased, for a moment, the years of worry and grim experience that he’d acquired since they were married.

It made Hotch young again.

And Haley was surprised in turn to find that his youthful spirit had always been there, lurking just beneath the tense surface, waiting for her to entice it out to play. It was an unexpected bonus to the serious business of baby-making. In fact, Haley was beginning to understand the wise, old adage about the journey meaning as much, or more, than the destination.

However, she felt she had to be careful about admitting to something so ill-bred and unladylike. Which meant she couldn’t discuss this new part of her life with her mother or sister. They were refined-to-the-point-of-fossilization just as Haley had been. Until Garcia’s influence seeped into her life.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Penelope sat down at the table where she and Haley had agreed to meet. With a case in progress, she emanated waves of nervous energy. In truth, she wanted to be back in her lair, waiting either for word of, or to be of service to, her team.

And she thought J.J. might be right. She had been a bit too impatient with Haley. She sighed, hoping that she hadn’t already driven the woman deeper into her prudish hideaway by virtue of throwing her so abruptly into the world of adult entertainment. Fidgeting with her napkin, Garcia finally picked Haley out from the crowd, headed her way…and felt a little thrill of hope.

When Hotch’s wife saw the tech analyst, the mega-watt smile that beamed from her face made Penelope wonder if it was the same pinch-lipped woman who’d blanched at the idea of venturing beyond the bedroom for romantic encounters. Haley slid into her seat, grin firmly in place, as she picked up one of the menus that had already been delivered.

“Hi! I’m starving... Have you ordered yet?”

Garcia blinked. This was not the cringing, blushing, proper-to-the-point-of-paralysis creature she’d expected. “Uh…no. I haven’t, but…” She tapped an electric blue nail on the tabletop, claiming Haley’s attention from the list of entrees she’d been perusing. “…but I don’t really want to be away from the office too long. They’re on a case, you know?”

Haley nodded, her smile fading. “I know. Aaron always calls or texts.” She locked eyes with Penelope. “I worry about him all the time. Even when he calls every chance he gets…I worry about him.”

Her eyes took on a distant look. “Even when he lets me know it’s all over and he’s on his way home, I worry. The flight… _any_ kind of travel really, whether it’s by air or land…anything could happen…” The smile was weaker; the eyes more earnest and solemn. “Which is part of the reason I want a family so much. I need a piece of Aaron here with me. If I lost him…” To Garcia’s horror, Haley’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

Pulling herself up straighter, Hotch’s wife took a deep breath, almost reclaiming her composure. “I love him. And I want to make him happy…” Her blush told Penelope that happiness…maybe lots of it…had likely occurred thanks to the triple X-rated talents of Dora and Ian. “…and I want to make him last… _forever_ …A baby would do that. I can’t lose him. I just can’t.”

This time the depth of emotion in Haley’s eyes brought moisture to Garcia’s. She sniffed it back, reminding herself that when she returned to work, she’d have to be on top of her game, not all shivery and weeping. Both she and Haley spent a moment tamping down their feelings, resulting in both expelling long, steadying breaths in unison; an occurrence that banished the last traces of sadness, bringing small smiles of complicity, along with calmer sentiments. After a moment, Hotch’s wife continued.

“So, I want to thank you for… _this_ …” The Haley whom Garcia had been expecting in the first place, shy and prim, surfaced. She glanced around, making sure no one was watching, before extracting the DVD from her purse. Covering it as much as she could with the palm of her hand, she pushed it across the table toward Garcia. If any onlookers had been interested, it would have appeared that some sort of clandestine drug deal was going down, rather than the simple return of a borrowed disc.

Once Garcia had concealed the DVD, tucking it deep into her own flamboyant tote bag, Haley leaned across the table, eyes still darting to be sure no one was eavesdropping.

“So…do you have any others?”

The slow spread of Penelope’s grin as she made the exchange, pushing a new disc toward her accomplice, was answered by its twin on Haley’s lips.

The suburban housewife only had a moment to glimpse the jacket, announcing a couple’s exploration of the Great Outdoors, before hiding it in her purse; a very dainty, very ladylike accessory no one would suspect of transporting such explicit, erotic delights.

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J. wandered PD headquarters with her phone in hand, giving it nervous glances every few seconds.

There was no reception in the rugged area around Clayton. All she could do was wait, hoping the team was safe, hoping they’d get their man, hoping they’d call as soon as they were close enough to reach her. So, when Hotch limped through the door, ragged and rash-ridden, escorted by one of the officers who’d accompanied the team as backup, J.J.’s jaw dropped.

And then her stomach followed suit.

“Hotch?!” She moved in for a closer look. More disturbing than the rent clothing and the reddened skin was the Unit Chief’s lack of his trademark glare. It had been replaced by one of rueful regret…almost embarrassment. “Hotch, what happened to you?” J.J. extended a hand, offering tactile comfort.

“Don’t touch him!” The escorting officer blocked her arm before it could make contact. “Poison ivy,” he said in response to her questioning look. “Need to get him a change of clothes and take him someplace where he can wash off…maybe get some cream for those welts.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, the liaison scanned her boss’ body from head to toe, inventorying the damage.

When Morgan had yanked up on Hotch’s shirt collar, he’d not only ripped it; the force had pulled the shirttails free of his slacks, exposing the area around his waist and along his sides, visible through gaps in the flak vest. The tender skin that rarely saw sunlight was puckered and angry-looking.

To make matters worse, Hotch’s pants had sustained a multitude of tiny tears, but the alarming one was along the inner seam of his left leg. From mid-calf to crotch, the fabric flapped open, revealing the hem of a pair of thankfully intact boxers…and a long strip of ivy-afflicted flesh.

J.J. stared, bringing the hand she’d extended toward Hotch to her mouth instead, covering it as the full import of the injuries hit her.

_Oh, Haley…I think this is going to be another conception-less cycle. I’m so sorry…_

 


	10. Bird Brain

The BAU jet breached a bank of turbulent gray cumulus, bucking just enough to remind its passengers that they were guests in this arena of Mother Nature’s, where her irrefutable power reigned supreme.

But to Prentiss, Reid, and Rossi it felt as though the darkest cloud was inside, hovering over teammates who were glowering at each other when they bothered to connect at all.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Timothy Logan, unsub, neophyte survivalist, and Trekkie, had been captured without incident several hours after Hotch had been sent back to civilization to have himself tended. Finding the ill-conceived cabin, its concrete walls studded with vulnerable windows and one flimsy door, deserted, the team had scoured the area for tell-tale tracks, or maybe an additional hiding place like an underground cellar. When nothing turned up, Morgan and Rossi had shared disbelieving glances.

“This guy’s an idiot.” Morgan had pronounced his final judgment on the man. It was exactly how he would refer to Mr. Logan when it came time to write his case report.

“I know.” Shaking his head, Rossi hadn’t been able to stop staring at the bird feeders the unsub had erected. They could only conclude that the man had used the solid timber meant for construction of at least two heavy, impenetrable doors, and possibly infrastructure for a secondary hideaway, to accommodate the avian population instead. Posts had been driven into the ground in a glade a few hundred yards from the cabin. Atop each had been fastened charming, pricey-looking, little feeders and bird houses. If Logan hadn’t been responsible for the deaths of four of Boise’s finest boys in blue, the agents might have lauded his whimsical creativity.

The posts ranged in height from five to twelve feet. The feeders and houses were turreted castles, Chinese pagodas, gazebos, gingerbread cottages, and Victorian manses. Walking into them had been like discovering an enchanted forest; home to tiny creatures springing from ancient folklore.

The illogic of it all defied professional profiling. Prentiss spoke the general sentiment when, holstering her gun, she watched a squirrel doing its level best to access the seed inside one of the feeders. “This guy jumped off the reality-train so far back, ‘looney’s’ in his rear view mirror.”

Reid frowned. “Psychopaths usually don’t show this kind of consideration for, or appreciation of, birds or animals.” He watched a tiny, feathered denizen of the woods flit from post to post, looking for its favorite snack.

In the end, they’d driven their vehicles off-track, brushing away as many signs of their presence as possible. Reid had used a stick to fluff up the stand of poison ivy where Hotch had landed, crushing the venomous foliage.

Morgan and Rossi had given the cabin door rueful looks. In his frenzy to overpower cardboard Spock and his deadly phaser, Morgan had punched his boot completely through the plywood from which it had been constructed. They did their best to pull the splintered lumber into a semblance of a solid surface, but it wouldn’t fool anyone, unless he was thoroughly engrossed in something else.

Which is exactly what happened when Logan finally returned.

The agents and the officers comprising local backup sequestered themselves in the woods immediately surrounding the cabin. Nearly an hour passed before the sound of an engine broke the peaceful cadences of nature. Guns drawn, adrenalin pumping, each member of the team crouched, ready to spring.

A Jeep pulled up. The engine dropped to a low rumble, then cut out completely.

The agents crouched lower. Morgan narrowed his eyes, waiting for the unsub to exit his vehicle, hoping the man wouldn’t be too heavily armed.

The door opened. A combat boot appeared, reaching for the ground. It was followed by a lanky leg clad in khaki wool. It was attached to a body that was wiry, but unimpressive for its lack of height and muscle. Timothy Logan looked like an eighteen-year-old boy. A _geeky_ eighteen-year-old boy. A geeky, _runty_ eighteen-year-old boy. Someone Reid might have hung with. Morgan blinked, waiting for sight of some of the impressive weaponry the unsub was known to have purchased.

Logan reached into the interior, backing out with arms filled. But the most dangerous item he carried was  a comic book. Bespectacled, mild eyes were fastened on a luridly colored page. His other arm wrapped itself around a brown grocery bag from which protruded the end of a loaf of French bread. Eyes still devouring the adventures of some caped super hero, the unsub bent his knees, picking something up from the back seat floor.

The agents tensed, expecting an instrument capable of dealing deadly force to finally make an appearance.

Instead, a large bag of birdseed thumped to the ground. Logan grasped one corner of it, dragging it in his wake as he trudged toward the steps leading to his tiny porch and battered front door. Nose buried in his reading material, he felt his way up the stairs, seed bumping along behind him. It wasn’t until he barked a shin on some of the wood protruding from the damaged door that the unsub was roused from whatever fantasy world had claimed him.

And by then it was too late.

“FBI! Timothy Logan?” Morgan was at the foot of the steps, the others fanned out beside him.

The man with the comic book stared at the destruction that was his front door. He pivoted with slow deliberation, stunned, staring with uncomprehending eyes, at the company of law officers spread out below him.

The eyes, magnified by thick, circular lenses showed no sign of recognition.

Morgan side-stepped up the stairs, every muscle and fiber tensed, wary. “Hands in the air, Mr. Logan.”

Watery, blue eyes gazed back at the agent. “Why?”

“Hands in the air…NOW!” Morgan’s voice grew graveled with warning.

Puzzled, the unsub released the package of birdseed. The bag of groceries slid down his side to the ground. Raising his hands, he kept his grip on the comic book. As Rossi bounded up, cuffs at the ready, Morgan’s gun remained steady, trained on someone who looked as though his main problem should be maintaining a grade point average, not being arrested for multiple murders.

“You have the right to remain silent…” Throughout being Mirandized, Logan’s only reaction was a deepening of the perplexed frown creasing his brow. It wasn’t until he was hustled down the steps toward one of the squad cars that he finally dug in his heels.

“Wait…” He braced himself against an officer’s controlling grasp. “Is this about…about those guys I stopped?”

Background chatter and movement halted, varying degrees of outrage flashing across the faces of officers and agents alike. Prentiss stepped forward., eyes snapping with anger. “‘ _Stopped_?’ You mean those men you murdered? Those cops you shot in the back? Those fathers, sons and husbands?”

At last, Logan rallied, his own fury surfacing. “They started it! I’m not gonna stand by and let them get away with it! I’m _glad_ they’re gone. I’d do it again!”

“You won’t get the chance.” Rossi put an end to the conversation, nodding at the officer holding Logan to take him away. The team watched the unsub being driven off, still shouting protestations and justifications for his actions from the rear seat of a cruiser.

Guns were holstered. Tension released.

“What’d’ya suppose _that_ was all about?” Reid looked after the departing unsub, his most salient trait, curiosity, surfacing.

“Dunno. Don’t much care.” As a former cop, Morgan’s concern was with the families of the deceased. Once the culprit was apprehended, his private feeling was that Logan didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy. In addition, now that the case was solved, his main worry was what he’d done to Hotch. After J.J.’s plea that he take extra care of the Unit Chief this time out, Morgan wasn’t looking forward to facing the liaison.

He just hoped the damage to his boss was minimal.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Back in Boise, after due consideration, Reid was detailed to interview Timothy Logan.

The job fell to the youngest agent in part because it was thought being the closest in age and physical aspect to the suspect would encourage the man to open up, and in part because Reid had spent the entire return drive postulating theories about what Logan’s rant as he was arrested might have meant.

With Reid sequestered in the interrogation room, Morgan went in search of Hotch. When he found the Unit Chief, he halted, shoulders sinking in abject pity.

Unable to tolerate the layers of close-fitting fabric that comprised his normal suit-and-tie, professional armor, Hotch had been forced to don what passed for his pajamas: a loose-fitting t-shirt and baggy sweat pants. J.J. was with him, and judging by the argument in progress, even those garments were tormenting him.

“Hotch, c’mon. No one cares how you look. No one’s going to laugh at you. C’mon…” The liaison was doing her best, keeping her voice low and soothing. But Aaron would have none of it.

“For the last time, J.J…. _NO_!” Hotch pulled at the inside seam running the length of his left leg, trying to keep the material from rubbing against one of the worst welts incurred by his dive into poison ivy. Morgan stood in the doorway, regret evident in his stance. When Hotch glanced up, seeing the author of his pain, he glared. J.J., however, looked relieved.

“Derek, maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

Hotch’s voice lowered to a growl. “J.J., I appreciate your concern, but…I…am… _NOT_ …going to prance around PD headquarters in my boxers. End…of…discussion.”

Morgan tried, but the muffled snort of laughter that escaped him as various visual images flashed through his mind, drew a venomous stare that rivaled the worst he’d ever seen lasering from Hotch’s dark eyes.

Emitting a garbled, ‘Sorry…’ he fled Hotch’s presence, racing against the guffaw that threatened to burst forth.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Reid emerged from interviewing Timothy Logan, he looked at once mystified and satisfied.

Approaching Prentiss, Rossi, and an unaccountably chuckling Morgan, he shook his head. “You called it, Prentiss. He jumped the tracks when it came to reality a long time ago. He’s confused and he’s melding a lot of different scenarios into his own creation of the world he wants to live in.”

Rossi cleared his throat. “Meaning?”

Reid’s brows rose, an expression of puzzled acceptance. “He saw a sit-com where a cop was bothered by a bird singing outside his apartment window. Pulled a gun and shot it to shut it up. Had a laugh track playing to make sure everyone knew it was supposed to be funny.”

Prentiss nodded. “B-u-t…he didn’t get the humor?”

“Nope.” Reid scratched his head. “Somehow he turned it into a reason to condemn all police officers. And now he’s the defender of his feathered friends. He feeds them, houses them, and is determined to remove their would-be assassins from the face of the earth…which means…”

“Cops.” Morgan’s brief foray into laughter had deserted him. Because of some twisted misinterpretation of a TV show, four of his brothers in blue had lost their lives.

“Yeah.” Reid took a deep breath. “Says he’s hungry, too. I guess we interrupted his normal schedule of eating with his bird-friends. Wants to know if we’re gonna feed him.”

“His mission’s to protect birds?” Morgan glanced at Reid, seeing him nod in response. “Sure we’ll feed him. Get him some fried chicken.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Boise had gone back to normal.

The team had boarded the jet and were on their way home, but the atmosphere inside the cabin was stormier than the darkening sky.

Prentiss, Rossi and Reid ignored it for the most part.

Morgan was keeping to himself, suffering grim glances from J.J. for having taken her request to protect Hotch to a completely unexpected place. He was also aware of the strange, disjointed looks coming from his boss.

Once in the relative privacy of the jet, Hotch had relented, removing his sweat pants and enduring the indignity of traveling in his underwear, displaying large swatches of pink lotion where poison ivy had done its worst. He’d also been persuaded to take an antihistamine to help with the irritating itch. Having a low tolerance for medication, the Unit Chief kept nodding off. But he was fighting the soporific effect, rearing his head back every time he caught himself succumbing to it. Whenever he did, his first line of defense was to glare about indiscriminately, daring anyone to notice, or…worse…find amusement in his situation. Invariably, Morgan would be the one on whom Hotch’s eyes finally settled.

Rossi was debating the wisdom of adding Scotch to the mix. He was beginning to lose the battle to keep from chuckling at the portrait of groggy defiance Hotch presented. It might be wise to knock the man out with a little alcohol before giving in to laughter at his expense.

While she’d been waiting for the team to return from Clayton, J.J. had apprised Garcia of her subterfuge regarding the scheme to get Morgan to keep an extra-vigilant watch over Hotch. But she hadn’t told her of the ultimate outcome.

Sighing, she sent one more disgusted look Morgan’s way before pulling out her phone. J.J. dreaded having to dash Haley’s hopes for another month, but she felt so much worse when, before she could send a message to Garcia, she received one. The tech analyst adhered to the code they’d devised for the situation.

\--J.J.! Humpty-Dumpty has dropped…Mama Hen awaits the Eagle.--

J.J. dropped her head in defeat. Haley was ovulating. Perfect timing if Hotch had been in any shape to do something about it. She watched Rossi walking down the aisle toward the Unit Chief, a tumbler of Scotch in hand.

And decided she’d ask if she could have one, too.


	11. A Rooster Joins the Flock

Haley found some comfort in the small, repetitive movements…thumping her forehead against the wall by the phone in the Hotchner’s living room.

She’d been so hopeful.

Garcia had texted that the case in Idaho was over. Flying at night, the team would be home by daybreak. Hours later, she’d tested herself and been thrilled to find ovulation in progress. That meant her husband would be home in plenty of time to take advantage of this cycle.

Haley appreciated the…inspiration…Garcia’s DVDs provided, but she was still pleased to think she and Aaron could retreat to the familiar confines of their bedroom to give conception another go. In fact, they’d have plenty of time. Out of sheer gratitude to the fates, or gods, or whatever exercised cosmic influence over hopeful parents-in-waiting, Haley had planned an evening devoted to pampering her man, stoking his fires, and putting him in the mood for intimacy.

She’d envisioned sending him upstairs to shower and change while she concocted a meal that included oyster appetizers, and chocolate dipped strawberries for dessert. She imagined stretching him out and massaging deep into his tired muscles, paving the way for a relaxing nap. She’d been looking forward to rousing him after a few hours, restored and virile, in a most delightfully tempting, teasing way.

But now….

…Nada. Zero. Zip. Zilch.

According to Garcia’s follow-up message, there’d been a foliage malfunction. And once again, Aaron’s body would require time and care to heal itself. In addition, it sounded as though they’d done something to him on the return flight. Agent Morgan would be driving Aaron’s car home from the Bureau. David Rossi would be transporting the man himself, and Haley had been instructed not to be alarmed at her husband’s semi-conscious state.

Nothing to worry about. Really.

So in the meantime, Haley bumped her forehead against the wall, finding the repetitive movement very therapeutic indeed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“C’mon, big fella…” Rossi opened the back door of the SUV while Morgan leaned in, slipping his hands under Hotch’s arms, preparatory to sliding him out of the vehicle.

The combination of antihistamine and Scotch had done its work. Maybe a little _too_ well.

Hotch had fallen into a restless doze for the last hours of the flight back to Quantico. Rossi had kept a close watch on him. Every time the Unit Chief’s hand moved to scratch at a pink patch of lotion, he’d grabbed the offending wrist and held it in a firm grip until the impulse passed. When they’d landed, Rossi had tried to be sensitive to what a fully-conscious Hotch would have wanted.

His pants.

Dave had asked the others to disembark, except for Morgan. It would take both of them to wrestle the limp body back into its sweats. But when they’d tried, Hotch had made little noises, half-moans, half-whines, and huddled away from them, bringing to mind a petulant child’s resistance.

Both Morgan and Rossi had smiled, ducking their heads to hide their mirth even if Hotch couldn’t possibly be aware of it. In the end, Rossi had driven an SUV out onto the tarmac. With the help of a pilot who looked baffled, but knew enough not to question the FBI, they’d loaded a pants-deprived Hotch into the back seat. Once Morgan had retrieved the Unit Chief’s car from the Bureau’s subterranean garage, they’d caravanned over to Hotch’s place.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley heard someone pull into the driveway.

Twitching the curtains back, she saw Aaron’s car and the hulking darkness of one of the official FBI vehicles. And…yes…Agents Rossi and Morgan were supporting her husband between them. Her eyes widened in alarm. Garcia had delivered the news and had said not to worry, but… _this_? Aaron couldn’t even walk on his own? And his head was lolling forward? And…and… _he has no pants on?_

She wiped at her eyes, took a deep breath, and went to open the front door, trying hard to look like the competent wife she felt they all expected Aaron to have.

“Good evening, Haley.” Ever the gentleman, Rossi greeted her, even managing a courtly nod despite having one of Hotch’s arms pulled over his own shoulders, kept in place by a secure grip on the wrist.

“Mrs. Hotchner.” Morgan was likewise encumbered; Aaron’s body sagging between his two colleagues.

“Evening…” Haley couldn’t bring herself to term it ‘good.’ “Please,…bring him in.” She tried to direct them toward the living room with a graceful sweep of her arm, but her composure cracked. Rossi saw the trembling lip, the brimful eyes.

“He’s alright, Haley. Really.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Hotch’s wife begged to differ. “He’s _hurt_! _Again_! Why is it always _Aaron_ who gets hurt?” The tremble had expanded from bottom lip to voice. Tears were imminent.

Caving to his natural, male desire to stave off waterworks, Morgan tendered an explanation; and if it was one that excluded his part in Hotch’s current physical state, he could be excused. Crying women demanded extreme measures, in his private opinion.

“Because he’s a good leader. He puts himself out front and never asks anyone to do what he won’t do himself first.” Morgan admired Hotch; he could hear the ring of truth in his own words and hoped they would alleviate some of Haley’s distress. “He’s a good leader…and he’s a good man.”

Unfortunately, the praise just made her realize even more what a treasure she’d married, and how easy it would be to lose him to his job. In the blink of an eye. The touch of a trigger. The space of a heartbeat.

Hotch’s wife burst into tears…

…which managed to bring Aaron out of his stupor enough to raise his head, sway within the confines of his teammates’ arms and mumble, “Haley? Was’ wrong? Haley?”

“Shhhh…Shh…Shh…Shh…Shh…Shh…” Rossi’s gentle, rhythmic hushing was intended for both Hotchners. Giving Aaron an affectionate squeeze around the waist, he released him to Morgan. “Put him on the couch.” Turning to Haley, he grasped her shoulders, bending his neck to engage her downcast eyes.

“Haley…Haley, look at me.” He won a tearful glance. “He’s not really hurt. It was just an accident with some poison ivy. He’s a little out of it and that’s _my_ fault. I thought he’d be more comfortable if he could sleep on the way home. So I gave him a little drink. On top of an antihistamine.”

Rossi could tell he was making progress. Hotch’s wife was sniffling, but watching him, searching his face for verification of what she was being told. Rossi allowed a fond smile to drift across his features.

“You know what a lightweight he is. I must’ve dosed him a little too much.” He gave her a small shake. “My fault... _Mea culpa_ …I’m sorry.”

Haley glanced to where Morgan had deposited her husband. Nodding, taking a closer look at her scantily clothed man…the long, lean legs she’d imagined doing _other_ things this evening….She composed herself, even managing to give in to a rueful chuckle as she dashed away the last of the tears she’d never meant to shed in front of Aaron’s team.

“I don’t blame you, Dave. And I really am glad you guys look after him as much as you do.” Just when both agents began to relax, feeling the emotional bombardment was over, Haley’s lips crinkled once more into lines of sorrow. However, this time she swallowed the urge to weep. “It’s just…just…” Tearing her gaze from Aaron, she looked down at the floor, mastering herself.

When she raised her head, she was back in control. “I’m sorry. You’re all just back from a case. You’re tired, and you must want to get home, too.” Haley lifted her chin higher. “Thank you for bringing Aaron back. Thank you.”

Morgan gave Hotch’s wife a wary look. He’d do almost anything to keep his boss safe, but running the gauntlet of female emotions was pushing it. Derek simply wasn’t comfortable in such delicate situations. He edged toward the door. “No problem, Ma’am. Like I said, Hotch’s a good man. I’ve got his back. Always.” Inwardly, he cringed, hoping she’d never find out the sequence of events leading to her husband’s encounter with poison ivy in the first place.

Rossi tilted his head, gaging Haley’s attempt to appear composed. “Morgan, why don’t you wait in the car?…I’ll be out in a minute.”

Derek grabbed the opportunity, giving Hotch a last glance where he lay and giving Haley what he hoped was an encouraging smile, he bolted for the calmer environs of the SUV.

Rossi took stock of Aaron, sprawled out on the couch in his underwear. He always found it a little disconcerting when the Unit Chief was oblivious to what went on around him, but still gazed out at the world through half-lidded, fixed eyes. He shook his head, returning his attention to Haley, but reassured that whatever was said would bypass Hotch…half-open eyes notwithstanding.

“I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t mean to make a scene. Thanks again for bringing Aaron home.”

Rossi’s sigh was deep. He _was_ tired, but his professional profiler’s senses told him there was more to this story. “Haley, what’s going on?” Her faux innocent look was good. He had to remind himself that she’d been the queen bee of her high school drama club…and apparently retained that once nascent talent.

Rossi crossed his arms. “I’ve seen Aaron home with more serious injuries than this. A _lot_ more serious. And you never broke down before.” Haley tried to escape by moving to her husband’s side, kneeling next to him, running gentle fingers over the parts of him that weren’t covered by drying patches of pink lotion.

Rossi followed. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to drag it out of Aaron...” He saw her brows quiver in trepidation. “…and he’s not as strong as you are when it comes to being pestered and nagged.” He raised his chin, looking at her from slitted eyes. “I might even bring in the rest of the team to help me. Shorten the war. Save lives…”

The touch of humor did it, as Rossi’d known it would. Straightening, Haley dropped a tender kiss on Aaron’s forehead, and motioned Dave to follow her farther away. Glassy eyes or not, she wasn’t taking any chance on being overheard.

Rossi lowered his voice in consideration of her caution. “So tell me. What’s going on with you?”

Haley chewed her lip, coming to a decision. She didn’t exactly share her husband’s sentiments toward his senior teammate, but she knew Rossi loved Aaron like his own. And that was good enough.

She looked Rossi in the eye. “We’re trying to start a family.” She could see the instant softening in the older man’s expression. It encouraged her further. “It’s been hard to get our schedules to…mesh.” She thought he understood. “Tonight would’ve been perfect, but…” Hating the feel of tears rising for an encore performance, Haley fell silent, letting her eyes drop once more.

And David Rossi, Italian Roman Catholic…who worshipped the idea of family…whose biggest sorrow was the loss of his infant son…who’d never expected to end up as sadly childless as he was…who wanted his surrogate son, Aaron, to have the experience of fatherhood he himself had been denied…

…became an instant ally.


	12. Sunny Side Up

“What the _hell_ , you two?!?”

Immediately upon returning from Idaho and the curious case of murderous bird fancier, Timothy Logan, Prentiss had seen J.J. rush to huddle with Garcia, secrets etched in every line of both their faces. She’d trailed behind the pair all the way to Penelope’s lair, determined to find out what was up with the strange currents she’d been feeling eddying around Morgan, J.J., and, to a lesser extent, Hotch.

_But then, Hotch was drugged and kind of out of it. Instead of currents, he was more like a sad, little whirlpool trying not to get sucked into itself._

As was her wont, reaching Garcia’s door, Prentiss didn’t bother with too many niceties. Like knocking. Or pleasant preamble.

“What the _hell_ , you two?!? What is going _on_ with you guys?!?”

The tech analyst’s doe eyes widened with the effort to conceal the feelings and reactions she habitually wore on her sleeve. “ ‘On?’… ‘On?’…uh…nothing’s ‘on.’ Everything’s off. Nope. Nothing’s ‘on’ anywhere.” Aware that her words might be construed as guilty babbling, Garcia tried to regroup. “Uh…Hi! Emily! Welcome back!”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Prentiss crossed her arms, giving her colleagues a stern look that, if Hotch had seen it, would’ve made him proud. Or nervous. “C’mon. Give. That flight back was _hours_ of weird, and I wanna know why.”

Garcia looked relieved. She could honestly claim that she wasn’t on the jet and had no idea what  Prentiss was talking about.

J.J. rubbed a weary hand over her face. She was adept at manipulating communication when it came to victims’ families and the press, but now she needed to deflect the attention of someone trained in the art of pursuit; someone with persistence that rivaled that of a cat’s nose pushing its determined way into, well, _anything_ really. J.J. turned tired, pleading, eyes on the agent.

“I don’t suppose we could shelve this and revisit it tomorrow?”

Prentiss’ brows rose. “And give you time to come up with a diversionary tactic?” She gave her head a shake. “No. If you wanna go home, just give in and make it a nice, quick explanation.”

J.J. sighed. “It’s really personal and it’s not my place to let that particular cat out of its bag. I’d be betraying a confidence, Emily.”

Prentiss glanced between her colleagues, eyes sharp with predatory intuition. “I’m guessing that cat has already escaped. It’s already made the rounds from its source to you, J.J., and then on to Penelope and Morgan.” Her lips twitched upward. “The cat’s in danger of going feral. It’s out. It’s expanding its territory. And if I have to ask around because you guys won’t ‘fess up, it might put a lot more people on the alert for that cat.”

“Derek doesn’t know.” Garcia blurted what she hoped would deter Prentiss.

Emily’s eyes lit with triumph. “So there _is_ something to know!”

“Oh, Pen…” J.J. groaned.

“What?!” The tech analyst reacted to the disappointment in J.J.’s voice. Garcia knew she was treading unfamiliar waters. Reading expressions and nuances, pushing buttons, deciphering the language of deceit; these were the skills at which her co-workers excelled. All _she_ knew was she felt very uncomfortable and wanted out. Everyone had come back safe, if a little the worse for wear, and that was all that _really_ mattered. Garcia wanted to go home. She turned a defiantly raised chin toward J.J..

“Derek _doesn’t_ know. I didn’t tell him anything.”

 “I know, Garcia. I believe you. But now…” J.J. gave a dejected sigh. “…now Prentiss knows enough to be problematic.”

“W-e-l-l…” Penelope nodded toward Emily who was taking in every word with the smug expression of someone whose suspicions have been confirmed. “…maybe we could use Prentiss’, uh, _talents_ to get this thing done.” She gave her head a sorrowful shake. “You have to admit, J.J., we haven’t been very successful so far. And the months just keep passing us by. And Haley…” A split second after the name slipped through her lips, Garcia slapped her hands over her mouth, looking for all the world like a caricature more appropriate to a farcical sitcom than the environs of the Justice Department.

In the wake of the _faux pas_ , J.J.’s eyes closed, shoulders slumping in defeat. While the liaison shrank in on herself, Prentiss seemed to expand, drawing herself up with the avid look of a lioness who’s sighted her prey and is ready to pounce. She subjected her friends to a very self-satisfied smirk.

“Do you really want me to start making guesses? It’s about Hotch’s home life. Hmmm…And it involves his wife. Hmmm…” An evil glint invaded her eye. “Wow. I can think of all kinds of interesting things…”

“Emily, please.” J.J.’s voice was small. She gave the others a wounded look. “I can’t betray a confidence. It’s like a code of personal honor. Please don’t ask me to break it.”

Prentiss relented. A little. Her intention was to ferret out information, not to cause her friends distress. Still…this was Prentiss.

“Okay, I won’t ask you to blab anything confidential. I don’t need to. I think I know.” With only a slight gloat in her tone, Emily put the pieces together. “It involves Hotch’s wife and you guys are counting your progress…or lack thereof…in months. C’mon, guys. I’m not stupid. Is Haley pregnant? And maybe you’re trying to keep her from stressing over Hotch while he’s in the field? That it?”

J.J. gave her co-workers a look that was composed of equal parts weariness, disbelief, and disgust. “No, Emily, that’s not it. I’m not discussing this any more. I’m tired and I’m going home.” A brief glare in Garcia’s direction told the tech analyst that J.J. expected her to do the same.

Garcia lost no time closing down her equipment and following J.J.’s example. She ushered Emily out of her lair, mumbled wishes for a pleasant night, and fled her presence, leaving a still-curious and somewhat dissatisfied Prentiss behind.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi, on the other hand, was feeling blissfully, joyfully exuberant.

He’d done his best to comfort tearful, frustrated Haley, and despite leaving her with a look of mournful resignation as she knelt beside her husband, taking careful inventory of his hurts, Rossi returned to the SUV unable to quell an ever-expanding grin.

Morgan couldn’t help giving in to the infectious quality of Rossi’s expression. He smiled without knowing why.

“So, everything’s good-to-go for Boss-man?”

Dave nodded as he buckled himself in. “I think they’ll be fine. They’re just hitting a few bumps in the road. They’ll be fine,” he repeated, hugging an inner joy to himself, ignoring the quizzical look from his colleague.

But freed from the threat of having to deal with tumultuous, female emotions, Morgan’s mind began assembling pieces. _There’s definitely something going on with Hotch. And it’s making my Baby Girl worry about him. And it’s making J.J. look after him. And it’s making Rossi grin like a clown._ He puffed out a disgruntled little breath as he backed out of Hotch’s driveway. Casting a furtive look at Rossi’s irrepressible smile, he extended a tentative feeler.

“So, Hotch’s missus was pretty intense.” Rossi’s grin didn’t falter. Morgan pushed the tiniest bit more. “Anything I should know about Boss-man? Rossi?”

The older agent pulled himself back from fond visions of teaching a miniature Aaron to fish and of watching his Unit Chief grow gray from the worries of fatherhood. “Huh? What?...Oh…no, Morgan. Everything’s fine. Hotch’s just going through some personal stuff. Nothing for any of us to worry about, though. But…”

Morgan’s ears perked up with eager anticipation. “Yeah?” His spirits plummeted as he watched his colleague reconsider whatever he’d been about to say. “‘But’ what?  What were you gonna say? C’mon…what’s goin’ on, man?”

Rossi shrugged. “Nothing that concerns us, but, well, let’s just see if we can’t take better care of Hotch for a while. Okay?”

Visions of pink lotion smeared over his boss’ pale, swollen skin flitted past Morgan’s inner eye. He took Rossi’s directive as something of a reprimand for the poison ivy incident.

“I’m doing the best I can, Rossi.”

Hunched over the wheel, Morgan made the rest of the drive in silence spawned by guilt.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley stayed by her husband’s side for hours.

She smeared extra calamine lotion that Rossi had left with her on the angriest lesions insulting Aaron’s skin. She smoothed his hair and, once again, inventoried all the attributes she hoped he’d bequeath a child. When the lotion was dry, she spread a blanket over his limp body with tender care.

Somehow, sharing her plight with David Rossi made her feel better. She knew Aaron would hate knowing such intimate details of his life were spreading among his team… _But he doesn’t have to know. Ever. Just like with J.J. and Penelope. And maybe Dave can help. He’s got Aaron’s ear more than the others. And Aaron needs people to look after him. He’s just…so…_

Her throat tightened. Watching the love of her life sleep, seeing him in such a vulnerable state, brought out every ounce of the Southern tigress lurking in her depths.

_He’s just…so…precious. I love you, Aaron Hotchner. And I swear by everything I hold dear, I will make sure you live on in your children. I swear it._

Determination renewed, Haley touched her lips to Aaron’s before going upstairs to her lonely bed. It was a gentle, chaste kiss.

But it held all the promise of immortality. 


	13. Beat the Egg

Hotch struggled up from the depths of his antihistamine-and-alcohol induced stupor to new levels of inflamed irritation.

His eyes, lips, throat, and especially his skin, felt scratchy and dry. He flinched. Vagrant darts of fire were scoring him, especially along his left inner thigh. As he attained full consciousness, the darts resolved themselves into burning brands. Vague memories…of Morgan manhandling his lesser weight and tossing him into greenery with the attributes of dragon-fire…of a medic coaxing him into taking a pill …of Rossi pressing a tumbler of Scotch into his hands…of soft, miserable weeping… _Haley!!_

His gritty eyes creaked open. New confusion enveloped him.

He was on the couch in the living room. He didn’t remember how he got there, but out of the maelstrom of recollections tumbling through his mind, the sound of his wife’s crying was uppermost.

 _I must’ve done something. Something bad._ Hotch levered himself up onto his elbows. _Bad enough to make Haley cry and then banish me from our bed._

Groaning with cumulative discomfort that he hadn’t quite analyzed yet, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. The house was silent and dark, cloaked in the feeling of midnight. With careful, quiet steps, Hotch made his groggy way upstairs, stopping in the bathroom en route to the master bedroom. That’s when his memories finally coalesced, achieving continuity and reason.

Staring back at him from the mirror over the sink was a face afflicted with scratches and patches of pinkish lotion in the process of flaking away from puffy, reddened skin. His body was no better. Thick daubs of pink against his pallor gave him a curiously marbled appearance. Hotch sighed, looking himself over with sad resignation.

_Okay. Maybe I didn’t do anything bad. Maybe Haley just didn’t want to risk coming into contact with something this…this…repulsive. And communicable._

In disgust, his eyes drifted to the mirror again. Frowning, he noticed a particularly red spot on his forehead. He leaned in closer for a better look. Suddenly, Hotch didn’t feel so bad.

The imprint of Haley’s lips in the sultry crimson she favored for romantic occasions brought out a slow smile. It was the remnant of a kiss. Hotch didn’t feel quite so unlovable with evidence of his wife’s affection planted front and center on his brow.

But then his eyes tracked to the small calendar Haley had been keeping in the bathroom for the last several months. She’d colored in a hopeful four day block. A block that would end in approximately twelve hours. Hotch had become versed in her color coding. Yellow highlighter indicated the days before ovulation. Green was dedicated to the twelve to twenty-four hours immediately post-ovulation.

It was an elegantly simple way for Hotch to see that, once again, he’d missed the mark. Shoulders slumping, he scanned the length of his own body, taking particular note of his abused inner thigh. He was trying to imagine a position that would allow him to perform without putting Haley at risk of coming into contact with his nice, fresh case of poison ivy. But when he touched a tentative finger to the puckered flesh reaching dangerously close to his crotch, the pain made his eyes water.

_You’re a mess, Hotchner. Again. She deserves so much better._

Once more he looked at the lipstick marking his forehead.

_How much longer is she going to wait for you to get it together?_

With a last, mournful glance at himself, Aaron went to the bedroom he shared with a woman destined to be disappointed for yet another month. He stretched out on top of the bedspread, letting blankets and sheets serve as a barrier to keep Haley safe from his poisoned touch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In view of her obvious displeasure with the situation, Aaron had to admit that Haley was treating him with more tenderness and affection that he felt he deserved.

She bathed and medicated his hurts. She waited on him, insisting he needed rest more than ever if he was to heal. If he hadn’t felt like such a failure in the procreation department, and if his skin hadn’t been tormenting him, Aaron would have enjoyed the brief respite.

He marveled at his wife’s good spirits and overt optimism. There was no way he could know it had to do with words spoken by David Rossi on the night of their return from Idaho.

“I promise you, Haley, I’ll do everything in my power to help.” Eyes shining with hopeful Godfather-hood, Rossi had taken her hand between both of his, giving her the impression that this was a near-sacred vow. “I will bring Aaron back to you whole and healthy and ready and willing. I promise.”

So Haley whispered her thanks and clutched the older man’s solemn oath as tightly as she had his hand, knowing if anyone had a chance of making her husband listen and, at least for the time being, put his own welfare higher on his list of priorities, it was Rossi.

Her hope and trust were thoroughly vested in Aaron’s best friend.

And if she knew her husband would shrink from the knowledge that more than half his team was privy to his intensely personal business, she pushed her concerns aside.

When it came to breaking the frustrating cycle of missed opportunities for conception, Haley was certain the ends justified the means.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Weeks later, Haley’s bathroom calendar sported another highlighted block of hopeful fertility-friendly days. They confronted Aaron every morning when he shaved; every evening when he prepared for bed.

They were a silent reprimand when, three days before the cheerfully yellow section would begin, the team was called into the field. But Haley quelled her doubts. She kissed her man goodbye and waved him off, confident that Dave’s indoctrination into Operation Ovulation would give her a better-than-average chance of having Aaron home in shape and in time.

 

xxxxxxx

 

New Mexico had a problem.

Bodies were turning up with disturbing frequency…always in pairs…as desiccated as the lonely stretches of desert in which they were found. Hotch’s first stop was at the coroner’s office where the anxious sheriff of the tiny town of Los Gatos offered up the baffling details.

“Autopsies show the desert got ‘em. Plain and simple. Dehydration. Exposure.” He lifted his hat, scratching at a receding hairline dewed with perspiration from the sweltering heat. “Wouldn’t’ve found ‘em a’tall if George Rubley hadn’t taken his biplane out for a spin. Now we got six pairs of corpses.” Shaking his head, he adjusted his hat back to its original position. “No sense to it. No sense a’tall.”

Hotch lifted the zippered edge of the first of half a dozen body bags brought out for inspection. “Looks like some of them have been out there for quite a while.”

“Six months for that one…” The coroner jutted his chin toward the mummified remains that had claimed Hotch’s attention. “That’s the oldest. Freshest ones I’d put at a week ago. Probably why ol’ George noticed them. Still looked human.”

Hotch noted the leathery, discolored skin peeking out of the bag. Even if you were searching for it, such coloration and texture provided natural camouflage against the arid, New Mexican terrain. “The man who found them…Rubley?...must have sharp eyes.”

“Not really,” the sheriff shrugged. “The pair he saw were dressed in real bright colors, too. Stood out from the sage and tumbleweeds.”

Reid bent closer, fascinated by the effects of the harsh, desert climate. “So they’re always found in pairs and each couple is either male or female?”

“Yep.”

Hotch stepped to the next victim, curled in on itself within its plastic cocoon. “They’ve been out there long enough for someone to miss them, so I take it there’s no chance any of them are from this area?”

The coroner shook his head. “We’re a real small operation, Agent. We haven’t even been able to get ID on them yet. The lab in Taos put us at the back of the line. They said something about having more important things to solve than hikers who’re too stupid to respect Mother Nature.”

Prentiss’ nostrils flared with anger at the callous attitude she was sure was driven by political expediency. “What were the last ones wearing? You said something about bright colors.”

The coroner stepped to one side, pulling a pitifully small, vacuum-packed parcel from a drawer. “These are the effects of one of the latest.”

Prentiss turned the package over, checking its contents. Wordless, she handed it to Hotch.

What looked like a citrus-yellow mini-dress with lace edging peeped out. Matching bangle bracelets and pale satin lingerie were also visible.

Hotch passed the belongings to Morgan and Rossi. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Glances passed among the agents as each reached the same conclusion. Rossi handed the victim’s possessions back to the coroner. “No shoes. No gear. No way. These weren’t people set to enjoy an outing in the wilderness. No way in Hell they’re hikers.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Hotch sighed. “Morgan, get Garcia to light a fire under that lab in Taos. I want to know who these people were.” The sheriff’s look of gratitude for someone with weight, who was willing to throw it around on his behalf, elicited a small, grim smile from the Unit Chief.

“I want to see where each of these people was found, Sheriff.”

“You got it, Agent. Hope you like the heat.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

A less meticulous man would have drawn a blank.

But Hotch was relentless, infusing his team with determination and obsessive care when it came to investigating the sites where the bodies had been found.

He was impressed that the sheriff had gone to the trouble of searching for additional dead on the heels of discovering the first pair. It showed his professional instincts were pointed in the right direction. Hotch felt the same way now as they walked the perimeters of each dump site.

 _That’s just it. These aren’t dump sites. These are places where each pair expired on their own._ _But they sure as hell didn’t **get** here on their own._

Lifting his gaze, he scanned the horizon. Something told him the answer was out there. Probably sitting in full view. Probably self-explanatory. Probably something that would crack the whole case in one of those wonderful ‘a-ha!’ moments he enjoyed so much.

But tracking it down would take time. In his mind’s eye, Hotch saw the gaily colored pages of Haley’s calendar wilting and blowing away like withered leaves. He’d call her tonight and at least give her a heads-up that he might be in New Mexico for a while.

She would have to understand.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi’s timetable wasn’t as accurate or detailed as Haley’s, but he had the feeling it was getting close to the time once again when Aaron’s presence would be required at home.

He had decided that the best he could do in the present circumstances was make sure the prospective father stayed hydrated, well-nourished, and got as close to eight hours of sleep a night as possible.

_But even if I get him home in better physical condition than usual, timing’s still the issue._

Watching Hotch study the surrounding terrain, Rossi sighed. The best thing he could do for Haley was concentrate on solving the case.

_Okay, Aaron. I need to get you home and synched up with your wife’s ovaries. Time to play Beat the Egg._


	14. Hard Boiled

J.J., Morgan, and Rossi were keeping Hotch in their crosshairs. But there really wasn’t any danger involved in wandering through the New Mexican desert when one did so in the company of the entire Los Gatos law enforcement community, and when one was equipped with air-conditioned transportation and a ready supply of bottled water.

As usual, J.J. remained behind at headquarters. The look she had given Morgan as he trailed after Hotch had been eloquent. _Take care of him. And, please, no more foliage mishaps._

Derek had nodded his understanding and had been hovering around his boss ever since. He was beginning to suspect that this concern with Hotch’s welfare went deeper than catering to Garcia’s worried flights of premonition. He’d figure it out eventually, but in the meantime he kept a weather eye on the Unit Chief.

If Hotch hadn’t been so immersed in his work, he might have noticed. He might even have found it irritating. But his conviction that the answer to this case was close kept him occupied.

The team visited each of the six sites where a pair of bodies had been found. At every one, Hotch was silent and thoughtful, lifting his nose in all directions as though scenting the air. When they reached the final location, he chewed on his bottom lip, eyes darting across sand and scrub beginning to turn roseate with the purple and pink shades of approaching twilight.

“I want to see them again. The sites. All of them. Again.”

The sheriff rubbed his jaw, feeling torn. He was more than grateful for the FBI’s intervention, and he had nothing but respect for this suit who was clearly giving every ounce of his professional talent to the investigation. But these were city folk. He felt duty-bound to watch over them when it came to the rules of desert survival. He moved closer to the leader, claiming the man’s attention by resting a hand on his shoulder.

“We can do that. But not tonight.” He nodded toward the western horizon. “Sun’s settin’, Agent. We can’t be out here after dark and expect to accomplish anything.”

Reid had been appreciating the scenery. Desert reminded him of the land surrounding his native Las Vegas. “He’s right, Hotch. Temperatures plunge in the desert after dark.” He squinted at the sky. “And there’s no moon tonight. It’ll be pitch black out here.”

Hotch blinked, so deep in the case he hadn’t noticed the passage of time. “But…” _It’s so close. I **feel** it. Just a little longer._

He felt Rossi’s hand descend onto his other shoulder. “We’ll get a fresh start in the morning, Aaron.”

“But…”

“No ‘but’s.’ Time to pack it in for the day.” Rossi tried to soften the order with a friendly pat and what he hoped was an incentive for the morrow. “Maybe we can get the guy with the biplane to take us up. Might give you a whole new perspective to see things from higher up.”

The muscles beneath Rossi’s palm went rigid. Hotch’s spine stiffened. Head snapping to one side, his eyes locked on the small, topographical feature that had been in sight all day. That had been nibbling at the edges of his perception, trying to tell him something even as it blended into the desert landscape.

A miniature mesa with a commanding view.

 _That’s it!_ “Sheriff, can you get us up there? On top of that plateau?”

A puff of breath formed of equal parts admiration and exasperation preceded the officer’s response directed toward Rossi. “Your boss doesn’t like to give up, does he?”

Rossi gave a sympathetic smile in answer. “None of us do. He just needs a little reminding sometimes. Isn’t that right, Aaron?” Hotch didn’t hear. His mind was already assembling scraps and pieces into a theory that made it imperative he visit the elevated surface of the mesa. He turned earnest eyes on the sheriff.

“There must be at least half an hour of daylight left. How long would it take to get up there?”

“Agent, there’s nothin’ there that won’t keep ‘til tomorrow.”

Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss noted the stubborn set of Hotch’s jaw. They knew the look. Boss-man wouldn’t be retreating any time soon. Emily sidled closer to Derek, one corner of her lips quirking upward. “Try not to throw him into any cactus while we’re out there, okay?”

“Shut up, Prentiss.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Distances in the desert were deceptive. This time it worked to the team’s advantage.

As shadows deepened, a small contingent consisting of Hotch, Morgan, the sheriff, and one deputy scrambled to the top of what proved to be a plateau only a mile distant and only a few yards high. But it was enough. Hotch had an unobstructed view of each area where bodies had been found.

Under the others’ scrutiny, he picked his way along the rim, searching the ground. Morgan kept pace, determined to act as a buffer to any unforeseen perils that might be lurking in the wings. He didn’t know precisely what his boss was looking for, but it seemed a pretty safe bet that whatever it was would stand out from the sandy, pebbled ground.

It did.

When Hotch dropped to a crouch, Morgan followed suit. Side by side the agents stared at a mounded pile of cigarette stubs. Hotch’s expression hardened.

“They watched. Whoever was up here staged this whole thing and watched.”

Morgan peered around the darkening ground. “They might’ve filmed it, too.” He motioned toward several trios of indentations in the sand. “Could be they watched with a telescope. Or could be they filmed using a tripod.” Another scenario occurred to him. “Or maybe this is just where some amateur astronomer sets up. This’d be a nice place to do some stargazing, man.”

“No, Morgan. No.” Hotch poked at the stubs. “Some of these are fresh. Some are almost completely degraded. Anyone out here over that long a period of time saw these people. Had to.”

Hotch stood, every line of his face registering disgust and sorrow for the horrors mankind was capable of inflicting on itself. His hunch was confirmed. The victims hadn’t been merely abandoned, but had been under observation. The locations had been chosen for proximity to a vantage point, as well as for isolation. He was ready to call it a day.

“Sheriff, any way you can keep a watch on this place tonight? We need to know if anyone comes back. And we’ll need a full forensics team out here tomorrow. This is the unsub’s base when he’s in the field. I want every inch scoured.”

Morgan took his arm, coaxing him toward the path leading to where the others waited. “C’mon, Hotch. It’s dark. Time to go. Don’t wanna risk trampling evidence now we know it’s here.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley hung up the phone and decided she didn’t feel totally defeated. Not yet.

Voice fraught with regret and longing, Aaron had advised her he might be delayed in New Mexico for several days. He didn’t go into detail. He was walking the fine line between protecting his wife from the visceral horrors of his job while trying to avoid making her feel excluded. It was a dance whose steps he hadn’t yet mastered. And might never.

But Haley comforted herself with the knowledge that Dave was in her corner now. She toyed with the idea of calling him, but hesitated. She’d never interfered with any of Aaron’s team; especially when they were in the field.

_But…_

Her eyes tracked to the calendar screaming its gaily highlighted message of urgency from the bathroom wall.

 _But this is different._ She tapped an impatient fingernail against the casing of her phone. Her lips drew into a grim line of determination. _Bringing a life into the world is just as important as saving the ones that are already here._ _Maybe **more** important._

Promising herself that she wouldn’t make it a habit, Haley pulled up Rossi’s number on the list she kept for emergencies, the one she’d yet to use…the one containing her husband’s business associates.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi closed his phone, looking pensive.

It hadn’t been an ultimatum. Not exactly. But he’d made a promise and Haley was expecting him to deliver on it. And although she’d hedged a little toward the end, saying she was only reminding Dave of the timetable involved _this time around_ , he could hear the edge in her voice. She was making sure he kept the Hotchner’s recent failures in mind. She was hoping this month would be different.

At the most, Aaron had a few days’ grace. But then Haley wanted him home. And healthy. And primed. And ready.

Dave held a debate with himself.

Aaron was beginning to suspect something was going on behind his back. Morgan had been a little too solicitous escorting him down from the mesa and into a waiting vehicle, making certain no stumbles or spills happened along the way in the diminishing light. In addition, when they’d arrived at the motel that would be hosting the team for the duration of their stay, Morgan had asked a few too many times if Hotch planned on doing anything other than retiring. He’d practically made the Unit Chief take a vow to stay in the nice, safe environs of his room.

Even Rossi had found it unusual. He wondered how much Morgan knew. Maybe this was just another wrinkle in his self-appointed mission to have Hotch’s back at all times. Even if that back was clad in pajamas and pressed to a mattress.

Dave could tell that Morgan had noticed _his_ contribution to Aaron’s welfare, too. They’d opted to go their individual ways when it came to an evening meal. While Hotch was tying things up with the sheriff, Rossi had visited the local deli across the street. As Morgan elicited a promise from Hotch to stay in his room, Rossi presented him with a bag containing sandwiches, chips and a soft drink.

“Eat,” he’d said, pressing his offering against the younger man’s chest, forcing him to take it.

“Get some rest,” Morgan had rumbled, placing a large hand on Hotch’s shoulder and pushing him backward, over the threshold, and into the security of his room.

If Hotch’s mind hadn’t still been totally immersed, running over the details of the case, Rossi was sure he would have called them on their behavior. As it was, he’d surfaced enough to give them a puzzled version of his glare. Dave had had the presence of mind to pull the door closed before things could go any further.

As he retreated to his own room, he’d been aware of Derek listening to make sure Hotch locked himself in.

Rossi sighed. Maybe they’d get lucky and the case would resolve itself within Haley’s timeframe. But, if not…he might be forced to take extreme measures. Maybe he’d even have to come clean and tell Aaron that he was privy to his baby-making endeavors.

He gave another gusty sigh.

_Well, even if he is intensely private…at least it’s just me. Morgan’s probably trying to make up for that poison ivy incident. I’ll just have to play it close to my vest and see how the next couple of days go._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Alone in his room, Hotch let his mind roam over the puzzle pieces they had accumulated so far. He put Haley out of his mind as best he could, believing that total concentration would enable him to break the case faster, getting him home to his wife that much sooner.

But he couldn’t help thinking of his domestic situation when he delved into the bag of sandwiches Rossi had pushed on him.

Egg salad.

It was _good_ egg salad.

But still…


	15. The Cuckoo's Nest

Come morning, Hotch was straining to be off.

Having found the cache of discarded cigarette butts, he was sure their unsub had taken next to no care when it came to covering his tracks once he was in the desert.

_Arrogance. That’s what will trip him up; thinking he’s found the perfect place to indulge whatever sickness inside him makes him think he has the right to commit murder._

The Unit Chief abandoned his usual suit, opting for a t-shirt and jeans in deference to the rugged terrain in which he expected to spend the day. With barely concealed eagerness, he slipped behind the wheel of the 4x4 ATV that had been put at the team’s disposal. Eyes fixed on the sheriff’s Range Rover, willing it to get moving and lead the way back to the crime scene, Hotch was barely aware of the others taking their seats. Until something warm pressed against the back of his hand gripping the steering wheel.

“Breakfast, Aaron. Designed for men on the go.” The warmth pushed with more insistence. “Take it.” Hotch glanced down to see Rossi’s hand offering what resembled a paper-wrapped hockey puck. “Take it. Even out here you can’t escape McDonald’s.”

“Thanks, Dave.” One-handed, he consumed the egg McMuffin as the caravan got under way, a van containing the forensics team bringing up the rear.

The ATV filled with the scent of the warm sandwiches as Rossi passed bags emblazoned with familiar golden arches to the others. All the way out to the remote, little mesa, Aaron sniffed the aroma and felt surrounded by the judgmental presence of eggs.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“The lab at Taos got some hits for you, Mon Capitaine.” Pride tinged Garcia’s voice as it issued from the speaker. “And _I_ took it a step further. But it’s, well, _weird_ , Sir.”

Morgan grimaced. “Is murder ever _not_ weird?”

“But this is, like, super selective.”

Hotch’s ears perked up. “How d’you mean?”

“I mean the IDs so far all come from L.A.”

Rossi shrugged. “So that’s his hunting ground. Kind of a long way to transport them, but we’ve seen that before.”

“But listen: his victims run the gamut physically: male, female, blond, brunette, tall, short…”

“That’s not selective.” Reid frowned. “Are you telling us this guys’ an omnivore?”

“No, no, no! Let me finish, Boy Wonder…”

Hotch heard the smug quality he’d come to recognize in Garcia’s voice. Although he welcomed it because it meant she’d unearthed something she believed to be of exceptional value, it also tried his patience. He’d praise her to the heavens and send her flowers if he thought her spirits needed a little boost, but time was precious. More victims might already have been targeted. And at home…eggs were waiting.

“Garcia!”

“Yes, Sir!” The staccato voice was infused with a little more discipline. “As far as I can tell, all of them were struggling actors. They’d all pretty much cut off ties with their families, because Mom and Dad and Auntie Mame thought they were crazy to run away to LaLa land, and they were living on the edge of poverty for the sake of their art, not that any of them had actually attained artist-hood, not yet anyway, but…”

“Garcia!” Hotch pulled on her verbal leash one more time. “So aspiring fame in Hollywood is our unsub’s criterion?”

“Not just, Sir!” The satisfied smugness returned. “They all attended the same bottom-of-the-barrel, so-you-wanna-be-an-actor, enrollment-info-on-a-matchbook-cover type drama school. And!” She hurried to the finish line, sure of garnering praise once she’d crossed it. “The slimebag who offers the classes has a regular job at a movie theatre. But! He’s called in sick for about a week at a time, and his absences fit with the estimated time-of-death the coroner gave for each pair of victims. And the movie theatre! It’s one of those hole-in-the-wall places. Plays only zombie flicks. So…” Garcia’s satisfaction with her own work danced across the connection. “Weird, huh?”

Reid snorted. “I’ll say. The only zombie flick worth watching is the original Night of the Living Dead. No way are there enough to keep a movie house afloat.”

“Well, now…” Prentiss had once modeled her makeup after denizens of the night whose best description would have been ‘corpse-like.’ She felt she could offer a valid argument. “What about Dawn of the Dead? Or Evil Dead: Army of Darkness? Or The Omega Man? Those were pretty good.”

“Yeah, and if you want one on the lighter side, Pretty Boy, there’s Shaun of the Dead.” Morgan chimed in. “Living Dead might be a classic, but there’s other stuff people’d pay to see.”

Reid rose to the challenge. “Oh, come _on_ , guys…”

“Everyone! Please.” Hotch’s rumbling baritone put a decisive end to further arguments of a cinematic nature. “Good work, Garcia. Is there a name? An address?”

“On its way to your tablets, Sir. Everything available on icky, twisty, Mr. Llewellyn Drummond.”

Rossi browsed the data, aware of Hotch’s glances as he continued to navigate the desert terrain, following the sheriff’s Rover.

“So what’s this guy’s trigger, Dave? He works at a movie theatre. Is that as close as he could get to the industry? Think maybe he’s taking out his failure on other aspiring hopefuls?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” Rossi raised his voice. “Garcia? This guy lives in L.A. Get someone out there to check out his home.”

“Already on their way, My Italian Prince.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was happy to have everything and everyone he needed for combing the crime scene, but he was endlessly frustrated to have lost phone reception in the deep desert. He finally sent Prentiss back with one of the deputies to a point where she could contact J.J. at the Los Gatos police headquarters, and return to him with a status update.

“Man, Hotch, you are _not_ gonna believe this.” Emily’s eyes snapped with the perverse joy of delivering macabre news. “Our unsub wasn’t home, but his place is some kind of zombie cave!”

“What?” Hotch straightened from inspecting some of the baggies containing evidence collected by the forensics team.

“Zombies! The place was wall-to-wall posters and models, DVDs and books. It’s like the guy sleeps curled up on a floor mat because there’s no room for a bed. The whole space is devoted to his passion for zombies!”

Hotch repressed a shudder. He wasn’t a big fan of horror; too much of the real sort spilled over into his life with distressing regularity. Nevertheless, he could appreciate the evil elegance of vampires; the tragic semi-humanity of werewolves; the eternal torment of mummies. But zombies…zombies bothered him. The empathy that made him an exceptional profiler, coupled with vivid first-hand knowledge of the texture, the scent, the _reality_ of cadavers…. Every time he saw a depiction of one of the undead devouring a human body part, his stomach rolled with nausea.

He already hated Llewellyn Drummond for what he’d done. Now he hated him for his taste in horror genre as well. Prentiss’ fascination with the kinks in this particular unsub was something he couldn’t share. He tried to redirect her enthusiasm.

“Was there anything else? Anything we could use to understand his motivation? Or where he might be?”

“Ohhhhh….that’s the _really_ freaky part!” Prentiss didn’t sound so appreciative of what came next. “He was scripting his own zombie-inspired production.” Her voice got quieter. “He kept a director’s diary. They found a copy on his hard drive. He thought he could make a new genre of snuff flick.”

Hotch stared. So did everyone else within earshot.

“He lured his victims out here, telling them they were his most talented students and he’d like to give them featured roles in a movie he was shooting.”

“And they were so hungry for a chance, they jumped at it.” Morgan shook his head, imagining the hopeful wannabes when they realized their tragic mistake.

“Yeah. He brought them out in pairs. But once out here, his plan was to abandon them and film their ordeal in the desert. He planned to do zombie makeup on them, then take their shoes and any protective clothing because he figured that would keep them within camera range. They couldn’t get far, ya know?” Prentiss swallowed in revulsion. “He kept it male against male and female against female because he thought he was being fair. He wanted them to turn on each other. Figured the fight would last longer if adversaries were evenly matched. The scene he was really hoping for…kept trying for…was one where they’d realize this was a life or death situation. And the only nourishment available was each other.”

She took a deep breath before revealing the would-be movie director’s ultimate goal. “He wrote that if even one of them had done what he wanted…had risen to the occasion and eaten the other…he would’ve saved that one, because…and these are his words… ‘that special performer would then have been the star of innumerable sequels.’”

“God.” Rossi’s one word was eloquent.

Hotch had closed his eyes for a moment. “Do we know where he is?”

“No.” Prentiss gave her head a single shake. “J.J. said they’re checking everywhere and interviewing everyone who had any meaningful contact with him. But…no.”

“Okay.” Hotch turned back to the growing box of evidence from the mesa. “We’ll finish up here. Set a watch again in case he comes back. Then let’s go over whatever J.J. and Garcia have for us.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Wanda Reagan hated lots of things.

Los Gatos. Her name. Being fifteen. Her school. Most of all she hated having to help out in her father’s deli.

It was boring, demeaning work she felt stigmatized her. She was sure that having to wait on her own schoolmates when they came in, having to make them sandwiches and take their orders for extra ice in their drinks, was to blame for her lackluster social life.

Some days were worse than others. Like today.

Her father had left her in charge during the slow evening hours while he did some repairs to their house that her mother had been after him about for weeks. He’d left her a list of new sandwich fillings that needed to be made. She’d already done chicken salad and tuna salad. But she balked at egg salad.

High on Wanda’s ‘hate’ list was egg salad prep. Shelling the boiled eggs made her gag. The slimy membrane between the shell and the egg white was gross. And the way the bits of shell stuck to her fingers was icky.

She pried open the container with the crusty, days-old egg salad and stared at it. Not that many people ordered egg salad. She chewed on the nail of her index finger, trying to see if there was any way her father would know if she skipped making fresh just this once. It did look kind of dry. It had that crust thing going on. So she stirred it up and added a little fresh mayonnaise.

Wanda decided no one would be the wiser.

Just this once.

 


	16. Pecking Order

The next day Llewellyn Drummond’s whereabouts was still a mystery.

The team spent their time compiling all the information garnered from forensics, the search of the unsub’s apartment, interviews with his acquaintances, and Garcia’s findings. The result was that they were sure Drummond was somewhere between L.A. and Los Gatos. They would just have to wait.

But waiting wasn’t easy in a tiny town with nothing to occupy them other than the case. Relief was palpable when Hotch suggested they go out to the mesa again and help remove all signs of the investigation. If Drummond returned, they didn’t want him to know his playground had been discovered.

Rossi saw the outing as an opportunity.

He hadn’t heard from Haley again, but he could imagine her biding her time, phone at the ready, hoping for Aaron to tell her he was on his way home. Dave began to appreciate the pressure she could exert on her husband even from a distance. He wanted that surrogate grandchild, too. He also wanted to ease what he was sure was a constant undercurrent of concern about meeting Haley’s expectations running through Hotch, making him anxious and unhappy as each month brought him face to face with procreative failure. Rossi decided it was time for a discussion. Out in the desert, Aaron couldn’t dodge him.

As they began walking through the area, gathering tiny flags marking positions of bodies and evidence, Rossi adjusted his route so that intercepting Hotch was inevitable. He closed in as the Unit Chief was brushing away some of the more obvious tire tracks crisscrossing the scene. To all appearances, Rossi was simply offering companionable support, brushing at the ground with a piece of sagebrush.

“How’re you doin’, Aaron?”

“Huh?” Hotch straightened from his task, unaware that anyone had been nearby. He glanced around, taking note of the others. Reid was on the plateau. Prentiss was, too, but at a distance. Morgan was on the lower level at least a hundred yards away, likewise involved with clearing out signs of their presence around the sites where the bodies had been found. “Uh, I’m fine. You?”

“Good…good…”

Hotch went back to work. If Dave had sought him out in this wide open area where there was no need for people to work shoulder to shoulder, he had a reason. _Probably some theory about our unsub. Maybe wants to test it out before letting the others in on it._

So what Rossi said next came as a bit of a shock.

“You know, Aaron, we don’t really need you here to finish this up.”

Speechless, the Unit Chief straightened once more. Rossi could feel his glare piercing through the dense, dark lenses of his glasses.

“I’m just saying we know who our unsub is. We’re pretty sure he’ll show up here in the next couple of days. And we’re fully capable of apprehending him and turning things over to the local PD.” He continued wiping at the ground, but risked a quick glance at his silent leader. “So if there’s any place else you need to be…”

Rossi had thought the quiet of the breezeless desert extreme. It was nothing compared to the stillness of a suspicious Hotch. Eventually, a deep rumble entered the vacuum.

“Why would I walk out on a case before it’s finished, Dave?”

Rossi sighed. It was time to come clean, especially if it would spur this recalcitrant father-to-be into his wife’s bed. “Oh…I dunno. Maybe because there might be something more important to do? Something that _only_ you can do? As opposed to finishing this case, which _others_ can do?”

“D-a-v-e? Are you trying to tell me something?”

Rossi abandoned all pretense of sweeping the ground. Standing tall, he locked eyes as best he could, considering both men were wearing sunglasses. He went for shock effect, bordering on the ribald. “Go home and do your wife, Aaron.”

The sputtering noise that issued from Hotch couldn’t exactly pass for words. Nonetheless, it was eloquent.

“I mean it. Go home. Haley needs you. We can spare you at this point. You’ve done a great job here, but you have to re-prioritize now that  this case’s almost solved.” He attempted to soften the shock with a grin. “Besides, you know you want to.”

“I…I…” Hotch drew himself up, striving for dignity. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rossi crossed his arms, deciding he might be enjoying poking at this bear through the bars of its cage. “Babies. I’m talking about little, tiny human beings…the patter of little feet…the product of most marriages…the thing you’ve been trying to get started, no thanks to your job.”

“Is this some weird, new area of profiling, Dave? A man’s been married for X number of years, so it stands to reason he should start a family? That it?”

“No.” Rossi’s voice lowered, becoming conciliatory rather than challenging. “I talked to Haley. I know you’ve been trying. You’ve been doing your best, but, well, you could use a little help. She agreed.” He held his arms out, presenting himself for inspection. “Meet your help.”

Hotch took a steadying breath. “Dave. I appreciate your concern, but this is private. I don’t need…”

“Yes, you do,” Rossi’s interruption was gentle, but firm. “I’ve known you a long time, Aaron; both as a friend and as a profiler. I let you batter your way through hard times on your own because that’s how you seem to prefer it. I respect that. But this time it’s not just you. You’re dragging Haley with you. And if you refuse to take help when it’s offered, you’re making that decision for your wife, too.”

Rossi reached out, resting consoling hands on shoulders that seemed to have slumped just a little at mention of injustice to Haley. “Think of it this way, Aaron. When you’re on a case, you’re on it a hundred-and-ten percent. It claims all your energy and attention. For the duration you work it, that case is your life. Nothing deflects you from solving it. It’s all-consuming. It’s your world. Well, Haley’s on a case, too. It’s called ‘starting a family.’ And your job is the unsub that she’s up against.” Hotch stiffened.

“Does that help you to understand a little better? Your wife’s working a case that’s been going on for months now. She’s got the same kind of single-minded dedication you have. You know how those long-term ones can eat at you, Aaron. Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to help her resolve it? Before she lumps you in _with_ your job and you become an unsub, too?”

Hotch’s head bowed. He studied the arid sand at his feet. He let Rossi continue to rub his shoulders as he digested the older man’s words. When he finally responded, his voice was low.

“That’s not fair. I’m doing the best I can here _and_ at home.” He trailed off.

“So you think you’re fighting a battle on two fronts, and Haley’s only doing it on one? That it?” Rossi’s hands fell still, holding Hotch in place. After a moment he used one of them to gently remove his friend’s sunglasses. “Aaron, don’t you want a child?”

“Of course I do. But…” Closing his eyes, Hotch took a breath before looking up. “But then I see stuff like _this_.” His glance indicated the situation as well as the site.

“And you think this is no kind of world to bring a child into.” Rossi sighed. “Have you discussed this with Haley?”

Hotch gave a miserable, little nod. “Sort of. It’s hard to make her understand without going into the kind of detail that she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to hear.”

“What does she say when you tell her how you feel, detailed or not?”

Hotch shrugged. “She says if people like us _don’t_ have children, then the bad guys win.” He startled a little when Rossi laughed.

“Aaron, you have a smart wife. A focused, determined, smart wife. And personally, I think you should listen to her. Besides, I want to watch you go through fatherhood, and I’ve seen a lot more of stuff like _this_ …” Rossi’s glance imitated Hotch’s, taking in the same elements of horror. “…than you have.” Hotch looked pensive, but nodded. “So promise me you’ll at least _think_ about letting us finish this up while you go take care of the future generation of Hotchners-to-be. Okay?”

Hotch gave another small nod.

“Atta boy.” Rossi went for a full-on hug, nearly pulling Aaron off his feet. Grinning at the thought that he might have helped the younger man over a hurdle or two when it came to fatherhood, Dave looked past the shoulders in his grasp…

…right into the eyes of a smugly smiling Derek Morgan.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan might term himself ‘relentless’ when in pursuit, but once he’d treed his quarry, he could be merciful and understanding.

Rossi was counting on it.

He held Aaron a little longer than necessary, using the time to frown and give a curt, truncated headshake to the smiling, gloating agent who’d clearly been privy to a very private conversation. To his credit, Morgan beat a hasty retreat, hugging what he’d overheard to himself, unable to wipe a gleefully mischievous expression from his face.

_That’s it! All that smoke Baby Girl and J.J. been blowin’ about spooky premonitions. Boss-man’s tryin’ to make a baby. That’s why they want me to up the guard on him._

Morgan liked his boss a lot. He understood his reticent nature and wouldn’t knowingly embarrass him. He would keep his discovery private, standing sentinel over Hotch’s family planning with the same devotion he protected the man’s physical well-being.

But Garcia and J.J. were another matter.

Morgan looked forward to doling out a little payback.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The day ended in Quantico with no more incoming information concerning zombie-fanatic Llewellyn Drummond. Garcia was ready to call it a day. As she entered the elevator on her way to the Bureau’s subterranean garage, her phone clamored for attention.

Retrieving it from her purse, she found a text message from Haley Hotchner.

<Almost egg time! Need Aaron!>

Penelope sighed. She knew the team was still waiting to apprehend their unsub. She decided to delay replying. She hated being the one to pass on bad news. She'd rather touch bases with J.J. first and see if there was any chance Hotch would make it back tomorrow. Before she could, another incoming text landed on her screen.

It was from Morgan.

<Accident! Hotch crotch! Details coming…Hotch won't be…>


	17. Sins of the Egg

J.J. was wrapping things up at the Los Gatos PD.

The team was on their way back from the desert. They’d reached the point where phone reception, although spotty, had been good enough to let the liaison know their mission was accomplished: the site was clean. J.J. yawned, more from boredom than fatigue. While the others were in the field, she’d spent the day tidying the boards on which they’d organized photos and whatever other bits and pieces they felt had special relevance to the case. She’d whiled away a couple of hours talking with some of the office staff. Every small town had at least one amusing story to share, and plenty of time in which to embellish it.

But now that she’d finished hearing about the local legends, J.J. was debating finding something for dinner on her own, or waiting for the team in case they opted to make the meal a group affair, when her phone went off. Considering the time difference between New Mexico and Virginia, she was surprised to see Garcia on the caller ID.

“Hi, Gar…”

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” The tech analyst’s burst of adrenaline-fueled panic cut J.J.’s greeting in half. “What happened to Hotch? Oh my God, oh my God! You guys are supposed to take care of him! And now Haley expects him back _tout suite_ , and…and…and…what are we going to tell her?! And _what happened_!!?? Is there a good hospital there? Should we fly him out? J.J., **_what happened_**??!!”

“PENELOPE! STOP!” J.J. pulled the phone away from her ear as it erupted with Garcia’s shrill tirade.

“Okay! Okay! Just tell me how bad it is! And will he recover?! And I don’t wanna have to tell Haley! So…”

“GARCIA!”

A beat of silence indicated the verbal avalanche was in check. For the moment. J.J. gathered her professional calm and waded into the only interesting thing to have happened all day. “Slowly and clearly and from the top, Garcia. What are you talking about?”

“The text! The text from Morgan! Oh….here! I’ll send it to you…”

A breathless moment later, J.J. was staring at the words on her own screen. “What the…?” Her eyes narrowed. Something stirred in her gut, but she couldn’t decide if it was anger or amusement. _Of course Derek sent this to Garcia! He knows if he’d sent it to me, I’d see it for the fake it is. ‘Hotch crotch’? Really? But…why?_

“Garcia? Have you talked to anyone other than me about Hotch and Haley? Anyone at all?”

“No! N-no!”

J.J.’s silence stretched long enough to hint at accusation. Penelope felt the need to defend herself.

“I swear, J.J.! By everything I hold sacred! By all my collections! Troll dolls! Eye-wear, both specs and shadows! I SWEAR ON MY SHOES, J.J.!”

“Alright, alright. I believe you.” The liaison kept her voice even, using it to soothe her troubled colleague. “Now, listen to me. Nothing’s wrong with Hotch. He’s fine. I spoke with him not even fifteen minutes ago. The team’s on its way back from the crime scene. Everyone’s good…”

“But!...But!..” Garcia began to ramp back up to full-blown panic. “I got the text _after_ that! In…in…the last three minutes, J.J.! Something might’ve happened! Maybe they had an accident! Buffalo! Do they have buffalo out there?! Maybe one jumped in front of them and they crashed! Or…or…prairie dogs? Do prairie dogs attack in packs like other dogs? J.J…!”

“Good God, Garcia! They’re fine! Derek’s playing a trick on you. If Hotch was really in trouble, Morgan would’ve called _me_ to get medical help, not someone clear on the other side of the country! Think about it!. And he’d be so worried himself, he’d never throw around rhyming catch phrases like ‘Hotch crotch.’ The only reason he did is to taunt you. The fact that he picked that particular part of Hotch’s anatomy makes me think he knows something. The whole get-Haley-pregnant thing. He found out. Somehow.” J.J. listened to Penelope get her rapid breathing under control.

“So even if you didn’t tell him anything outright, is there any way you might’ve let something slip? Anything?”

Garcia had calmed enough to begin to resent being doubted. “No way. Are you sure _you_ didn’t say something? You’re around him a lot more than I am. On the jet. In the field.”

“Positive.” J.J.’s tone left no room for doubt. Thoughtful silence ensued.

“Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s just trolling.”

“Noooo…The ‘crotch’ thing smells fishy. He’s onto something. And if we didn’t tell him, and I’m willing to bet Haley didn’t, then someone else’s in on it.”

“Hotch?” Garcia’s tone was filled with hope.

J.J. dashed it. “Are you kidding? Hotch doesn’t share personal stuff with anyone other than Ros…”

The liaison fell silent as the full import of what she was saying struck. Thousands of miles apart, tiny light bulbs flicked on over two FBI employees’ heads.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The ATV pulled into town at dusk, expelling a team of stiff, dusty, tired agents.

The drive back had been quiet. Hotch had been preoccupied with his own thoughts, unaware that he was affecting the general mood. Rossi had been subdued, believing he was giving Aaron space to mull over their discussion. The older man had shot a few meaningful looks Morgan’s way. He anticipated another conversation before they retired for the night, just to be sure Derek knew the privileged information he’d picked up was to be kept in the strictest of confidence.

But for now, thoughts of food and a shower were uppermost in nearly everyone’s mind. Except Hotch’s. It tore at his professional ethics to even entertain the notion of leaving before the case was truly finished; before it was all wrapped up with a tidy FBI-endorsed bow. Likewise, it tore at his desire to keep Haley happy and to maintain his domestic life on an even keel, _not_ to leave the case in the others’ capable hands when he knew they could manage without him.

Such a debate between two of his most deeply-ingrained attributes wouldn’t be settled easily. He needed to sleep on it. And he needed to call his wife and, even though he was pretty sure which side she’d tip the scales toward, at least discuss it with her. Sitting behind the wheel, resting his chin on top as he chewed on his dilemma, Hotch was unaware of the others having exited, dispersing to whatever called most importunately: food or cleanliness.

“Aaron. Hey, c’mon, Aaron.” Reaching through the driver side window, Rossi gave his friend’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Let’s get something to eat. We can talk a little more, too. If you want, that is.”

“Sure. Yeah.” Hotch’s legs felt stiff after the long drive. He slipped out of the ATV and took a few steps, trying to stretch his muscles, but demonstrating a somewhat jolting gait in the process before his legs reverted to their usual smooth movement.

Rossi chuckled. “For a minute there you looked like one of our unsub’s zombies.”

And that put the Unit Chief’s mind right back into the empathic arena containing the full horror of what had been done out in the desert, and what Llewellyn Drummond was likely planning to do again with a new set of ‘actors.’

And that was probably why, when Rossi ushered Hotch into the quiet, little deli and told him he was going to eat, whether he felt like it or not, the idea of meat turned Aaron’s stomach. He couldn’t wrench his tired thoughts from the images of zombies tearing at flesh. The texture. The meaty scent. He watched Rossi order a turkey sandwich. He saw the teenager behind the counter slice from a large chunk of what had once been a living creature. He swallowed his bile, unwilling to let even Dave into this particular cavern in his private world of normally hidden idiosyncrasies.

And that was why when Rossi folded his arms and turned an expectant, commanding stare on his appetite-challenged colleague, Hotch’s eyes darted over the menu taped against the cash register, seeking the least objectionable alternative to meat.

He sighed.

It seemed there was no escape.

His day would end the way it had begun. With eggs.

“Well, Aaron?” Rossi nodded toward the girl waiting for his order. “What’ll it be?”

Hotch gave the older man a mournful look. “Egg salad sandwich, please.”

“Good boy.” As he watched the sour-looking teen mound scoops of eggy yellow onto bread, Rossi decided that he’d insist on keeping Aaron company while he ate. It would be another opportunity to talk.

And he wanted to be sure the man consumed every last morsel.


	18. The Flock Gathers

True to his assurances to Haley that he would watch over Hotch, Rossi sat with him at one of the small, wrought iron tables on the sidewalk outside the deli, making sure the Unit Chief ate every last scrap of his egg salad sandwich.

Conversation was minimal. Rossi didn’t want the discussion of weighty matters to distract Hotch from his meal. But once he was finished, the subject of early dismissal from the case was broached again.

“So. You think you’ll do the best thing and go home tomorrow?”

Hotch grimaced. “I notice you didn’t say ‘the _right_ thing.’”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, waxing philosophical. “That’s because neither choice is wrong, Aaron. It’s a matter of priorities. We can take care of Drummond and his zombie snuff flicks. We can’t, however, take care of getting the Hotchner line of progeny started.” He grinned.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Dave…Maybe a little too much.”

The grin broadened. “Yes. I’m looking forward to seeing the expression on your face when you hold a baby you had a hand…or other part…” The grin flashed wicked for a brief moment. “…in creating. I’m looking forward to seeing you drag yourself into the office for the first few months cranky from lack of sleep. I’m really looking forward to seeing you change a diaper for the first time…”

“You’re not exactly making a case for parenthood, Dave. You know that, right?”

The tenor of Rossi’s voice changed. “I hope you know that all that: the fatigue, the worry, the sheer human mess of it all…I hope you know that I’d give anything to have had it for myself.” Hotch wasn’t sure, but he thought the last vestiges of twilight showed the older man’s eyes brimful; a true testament to his feelings on the matter.

“Don’t miss out, Aaron. It’s your choice, of course. But don’t miss out on the greatest joy a man can know. Haley’s offering you a gift. Take it. Please.”

Hotch swallowed, glad he’d finished the sandwich before emotion knotted his stomach. “I’ll think about it. Let’s just see where we are tomorrow.” Rossi’s regard was steady, waiting for something more substantial.

“How about if I ask J.J. to reserve me a seat on a flight home tomorrow afternoon? If nothing changes as far as our unsub goes, I can make up my mind then. That work for you?”

Rossi pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll take it.” Standing, he stepped to Hotch’s side. Wrapping one arm around the younger man’s neck, he planted a loud kiss on top of the dusty hair. “Now, let’s get you to bed so you’re well-rested for whatever the new day brings…Future Daddy.”

Hotch struggled out of the affectionate hold, but he had to admit…hearing himself called ‘Daddy’ made his insides jump. It was like the feeling he’d had when Haley had first whispered that she wanted him to father a child.

He sighed as Rossi provided a happy, smiling escort to the motel. Deciding, for the first time in his career, whether or not to abandon his team on a case didn’t bode well for a restful night.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan thought he’d been very well-behaved, considering.

He hadn’t said or done anything that could tip Hotch off about his personal life having gone public. But the looks Rossi had been directing his way all afternoon told him there would be a serious discussion in the very near future.

Overall, Hotch’s prospective paternity delighted Morgan. He knew there was a soft, caring heart concealed under his boss’ stoic exterior. Sometimes it spilled over in the form of kind, anonymous gestures directed toward his team, or toward select victims encountered during cases. But the impulse was always kept under wraps, enacted in secrecy. Morgan thought, if Hotch had a son or daughter on whom to lavish that pent-up, frustrated desire to show affection, he’d be a deeply happy man; a term he never thought he’d be able to apply to tough, introverted Aaron Hotchner.

Derek took a private vow to do everything in his power to encourage the propagation of mini-Hotches. He was confident Rossi would perceive his genuine wish to help. But first, he knew there’d be an in-depth conversation. So when the knock came, he pushed aside the Big Mac wrappers from his dinner and threw open the door with a grin.

“That was a mean thing you did, Morgan.” J.J.’s narrowed eyes sparked censure at him from the threshold. “You scared poor Garcia to death. Not. Nice.”

Taken off guard, Morgan recoiled in the face of feminine fury. But only for a moment.

“You wanna hear something ‘not nice,’ J.J.? You guys used me! All that screwy stuff about premonitions. You had me half freaked-out the whole time I was in the field.” Seeing doubt cross her features, Morgan warmed to his subject. “If you hadn’t had me so on edge, I might not have thrown Hotch into that poison ivy. He might’ve gotten home fine. And by now maybe his wife’d be…” Realizing there’d been no open admission to the crux of the matter, parenthood, Morgan clamped down on what he’d been about to say.

But J.J. was trained in the art of hearing things unspoken, of coaxing them out of subjects too traumatized or uncooperative to offer them outright. Derek’s failure to say the word ‘pregnant’ screamed loud and clear. Each subjected the other to a wary, sidelong glare.

“Hotch’s wife would be…what?” J.J.’s chin raised in challenge.

Morgan met her head-on with a shrug. “You tell me. You started this whole thing.”

“Did not.”

Sudden inspiration flashed through Derek’s brain, courtesy of memory. “Yes! You did! When I heard you and Baby Girl talking way back, months ago. You said ‘wouldn’t it be nice if Hotch had a b…’ It started with ‘b’!” The man fairly exuded triumph. “You meant ‘baby!’ You did.” Morgan crossed his arms, victorious. “I _know_ you did.”

J.J. took a moment to study her colleague’s body language. It reeked of stubborn certitude. _If I deny it, we’ll just get sidetracked into a round of verbal sparring._ She sighed. _And if he really does know, we shouldn’t be adversaries. We should be working on this together. **Especially** if he knows. But… **how** does he know? Only one way to find out…_

J.J. went on a fishing expedition.

“I’m sorry if you feel we used you, Derek.” She offered him a slow smile. “But you have to admit, it’s a worthy cause. Can you see Hotch as a father?”

Morgan’s tense stance relaxed. “That’d be one lucky kid.” The partial conversation he’d overheard in the desert came back to him. “But I guess he needs a little push, huh?” He was encouraged by J.J.’s complicit, smiling nod, indicating she was on the same track, part of the inner circle. Morgan grinned in return. “Well, if Rossi can’t convince him, no one can, right?”

 _I knew it!_ J.J.’s smile broadened. “So…where do you think he stands on the issue right now?”

“Rossi? A hundred percent behind it. But like I said, Boss-man needs a push.”

“Hmmmmm…” J.J.’s noncommittal response raised a frisson of concern in her co-worker. His happy expression dimmed.

“J.J…Are you playing me?” Looking over her shoulder he saw Rossi and Hotch approaching. Even in the failing light, Morgan could tell Rossi was glancing his way; no doubt planning on a visit as soon as the potential Daddy was tucked away for the night.

J.J. would have liked to explore exactly how much Morgan knew before tipping her hand, but she saw him tracking something behind her, a concerned look on his face. Turning, she saw the two agents arrive at Hotch’s door; saw Rossi cuff the Unit Chief around a little in a rough, but companionable way before pushing him into his room. Something about the familiarity of the physical altercation was very paternal. It warmed J.J.’s heart, making her consider changing her tactics. Besides, time was running out. Rossi was looking their way.

“Little bit. Garcia and I know, but I thought we were the only ones. Looks like Mr. Franklin was right: ‘Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.’ So I guess Rossi knows, and he told you?”

“Not exactly.” Morgan’s reply was a harsh whisper.

Rossi was upon them.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had allowed himself to be affectionately pummeled and pushed. It made Dave happy and reminded Aaron that he wasn’t alone even in this most personal of arenas…the one devoted to making babies.

He liked it when Dave treated him like family. More precisely, like a son. But he’d never extrapolated that to considering how his having a child would affect the older man. The fact that Dave was plainly looking forward to it, and maybe had entertained the notion of Baby Hotchner at idle moments even before Haley had decided to put the plan in motion, touched Aaron.

As he readied for bed, he let his mind drift. Images of Rossi babysitting, of birthday parties with balloons and cake, of all the childhood delights Hotch’s own had failed to include swirled through his tired thoughts.

When he finally lay down, Aaron realized that not one of the visions had been of unsubs or zombies. Staring at the ceiling, he grinned. _Well…I guess that tells me where my heart is. Maybe Dave’s right._

Picking up his phone, he called Haley.

“Aaron! Sweetie, is the case over? Are you coming home?” There was an eager, almost desperate note in his wife’s voice.

“Hi, Honey.” His sigh was weary, but part blissful, too, to hear how much he was wanted…even if it was mostly due to his breeding capability at the moment. “The case isn’t over, but…” A tiny worm of anxiety worked its way up from his stomach. He’d been about to say ‘but, yeah, I think I’ll come home anyway.’

Turned out it wasn’t that easy to put aside SSA Aaron Hotchner, consummate professional, tireless pursuer of unsubs. So, at the last minute, he temporized. “…but I might try to get home tomorrow evening. Maybe. Depending on how the case goes.”

“Oh, Aaron. That would be perfect! Perfect timing, you know?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, by now I know. Sooooo…how much of a grace period do you think I’ll have if something comes up and I get delayed?”

Haley’s voice took on a harder edge. “Not much. I’m guessing it’ll be tomorrow, so maybe another day of, uh, optimum conditions? Please, Aaron, try to make it back in time. And be careful. Take care of yourself. Try not to get hurt?”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that. This unsub’s not the kind that’ll go down shooting.” Then Hotch let some edge of his own seep into the next words. “And besides…Rossi’s sticking close to me for some reason. Like glue. Making me eat. Making me rest. Picking out my clothes. Holding my hand. What’s up with that do you suppose?”

Silence. Followed by a voice Hotch knew well. It was young and sweet and catapulted him back to the days when he’d first fallen in love with Mrs. Brooks’ youngest daughter.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think it would hurt to let Dave in on what we’re going through.”

“You coulda told me.”

“I know. But he loves you, Aaron. You know that, right?”

“I guess.”

“He does.” Her tone turned smoky, full of carnal promises to tempt her husband home. “I do, too. Come to me.”

“I’ll do my best. Love you. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hope so. Try. G’night.”

“Night.”

Hotch put his phone on the nightstand and resumed staring at the ceiling. He’d backed out at the last second when he’d meant to assure Haley that he’d be on a plane tomorrow. _I’ve never left a case early before. Never._

His stomach gave a loud growl, surprising him. _Wow. Even **thinking** about leaving early doesn’t feel right on a gut level. Literally._

He frowned when the next sound issuing from his midsection was more of a full-bodied, guttural snarl.

 

 


	19. Eggs Victorious

“Hi, J.J.. How was your day? Still all quiet on the home front?”

Even though his words were for the liaison, Rossi’s eyes were fixed on Morgan, leaving no doubt where his true interest lay. A fact that wasn’t lost on J.J.. Her eyes darted between the agents, assessing the situation.

“I alerted highway patrols to be on the lookout for the unsub’s car anywhere between here and L.A., but there’s always the chance he’ll use a vehicle rented under a false ID. Or he might even have transportation that’s completely off the grid. Bought and paid for with cash. Unregistered. Uninsured. Even Garcia can’t trace something like that if no credit card or paper trail exists. And none does. So it’s just one of those hurry-up-and-wait things ‘til Drummond shows up.”

She noted the somewhat grim expression on Rossi’s face; the sheepish one on Morgan’s.

“Then ‘wait’ is what we’ll do.” Dave broke eye contact to glance at her, giving her a token smile. “Let’s hope we can wrap this up tomorrow. But…” He returned his regard to Morgan. “…right now I need to have a word with Derek. Do you mind?”

J.J.’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t know exactly what had transpired in the desert, but the secret was out. In a way, she was glad. Concealment precluded effective teamwork. And J.J. was a stolid advocate of teamwork.

“If it’s about Hotch having a baby, I already know. And I know that you know. And I know Morgan knows.” She frowned. This was in danger of descending into one of those sitcom dialogues that wasn’t really funny, but strove for humor based on convoluted communication. J.J.’d never been a fan.

Rossi’s brows ascended as far as they were able, but reversed into a frown matching the liaison’s. “Morgan, you know what you heard out there was private.” He shook his head. “You know Hotch would hate everyone knowing his personal business.”

“Hey! Back up, man.” Morgan stepped up to his own defense. “I didn’t tell anyone anything, and the only reason J.J. knows I know, is she tricked me.” The corners of his mouth turned downward. “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s good at that kind of thing, Rossi. One of her job skills. But I didn’t betray Hotch or you or anyone. You _know_ I wouldn’t.” Having his loyalty in doubt, hurt.

Ever the peacemaker, J.J. stepped in. “I already knew about Hotch wanting a baby, Rossi. Morgan didn’t really tell me anything.” She bowed her head for a moment. “And I guess I did lead him on a little. Not his fault.” When she looked back up, her smile, one of her most powerful resources, cut through the aura of misunderstandings and undeserved accusations like a ray of light. “But maybe this is a good thing; us all knowing. We can have each others’ backs looking after Hotch. Kind of like casting a protective net all around him.” J.J. beamed until Rossi spoke.

“What do you mean by ‘us all knowing.’ Exactly who is ‘us’?”

Her sunny smile faltered. “Uh, well, you, me, Morgan, Garcia, and, well, Haley, of course.”

Rossi blinked. “So the only team members who _aren’t_ in on this are Reid and Prentiss?”

J.J.  and Morgan exchanged looks filled with a doomed sort of trepidation. Rossi nodded in understanding, realizing it was only a matter of time.

“Should’ve known from the start. There’s no way to keep a secret…especially among profilers. Poor Hotch.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley watched Aaron’s call disconnect and, hugging the phone to her chest, pretended it was the warm, strong, male-scented body of her husband. She gave a small, happy sigh of satisfaction.

She was sure Aaron wouldn’t have even mentioned the possibility of coming home unless it was already virtually a certainty. Bringing David Rossi into the situation had been a good idea.

_It’s what I should have done from the start. J.J. and Penelope are great, but Dave can handle Aaron. He can make him see reason and, whereas the others can help pave the way, Dave can actually push him down it._

_Although…_ Her smile grew seductive. _The ladies did bring some interesting **additions** to what Aaron and I do. And when he gets home, I’m going to surprise him…and reward him…and make him see that sometimes it’s worth leaving the job._

As she’d done before, Haley began planning the perfect evening. Oyster appetizers. Chocolate-dipped strawberries. Massage oils. Candles. Time. Lots and lots of time.

She ignored the tiny shiver of apprehension skating down her spine; the last time she’d made such plans, Aaron had arrived home unable to do more than lie still and suffer, sidelined by poison ivy. Her inner tigress shook off the chill. Now was not a time to be cowardly or timid. Now was a time to plan a pounce…an attack…a mauling so delightful her mate would end up, again, lying still.

But this time from being thoroughly, completely depleted. Again and again. And maybe even again.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch listened to his digestive system orchestrating his demise.

It reminded him of a zoo he’d once been near at feeding time. The rumbling, shrieking impatience of the animals had been truly alarming. So was this. But so far, it was only noise.

And then it wasn’t.

With extreme urgency, Aaron vaulted for the bathroom.

He had time for a few thoughts before his body claimed all his attention as it tried to expel toxins wreaking havoc deep within. He was aware food poisoning could take days to develop, but somehow he knew…just _knew_ …the author of his misery was egg-related. And as soon as the wretched egg was uppermost in his mind, a fresh wave of anguish rocked him.

_Haley! Oh, Haley, no!! I can’t do this to you again!_

And then Aaron stopped thinking about much of anything. Except once, hours later when, overcome by sheer exhaustion, he thought how nice and cool the bathroom floor tiles felt against his cheek.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Following their usual routine, the team assembled in the motel parking lot at about eight the next morning.

Hotch’s absence was conspicuous.

Prentiss shrugged. “He knows we’re at a standstill. Maybe he’s just sleeping in.” She noticed the concerned, semi-conspiratorial glances exchanged between Rossi, J.J., and Morgan immediately before all three strode off in the direction of Hotch’s room.

She shook her head at Reid. “Something’s going on. _Been_ going on for a while now. Something to do with Hotch.”

“Huh?” Reid had been nose-deep in the pages of one of the books he usually brought along for times such as these when they were idle. Light reading. Something to do with quantum mechanics. He pulled himself back from whatever theoretical space his insatiable brain had been exploring.

Prentiss tilted her head toward the others. Rossi was rapping on Hotch’s door, calling his name. “Those guys. Something’s up with Hotch. Don’t you feel it?”

Reid followed her glance. Closing his book, he turned his extraordinary intellect loose on the statistical probabilities of what could be making half the team close around their leader in, if Prentiss was right, a very secretive way. After a moment of intense consideration, his expression cleared.

“I wonder if…” He trailed off as they watched Morgan sprint toward the manager’s office while Rossi and J.J. tried to peer through windows obscured by curtains.

Reid didn’t finish his thought. Clearly, something was wrong. Both he and Prentiss ran to join their colleagues as Morgan returned, an agitated manager clutching a passkey in tow.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Once inside, quick, professional observation verified that there had been no intrusion, no struggle. But Hotch wasn’t in sight.

Rossi made a beeline for the bathroom.

“Awwww…Aaron!” Both the unpleasant aroma and the sight of his friend curled up on the floor clued Dave in to what had likely been the cause of the pitiful scene before him. He turned to the agents clustered behind him, casting worried looks past him at their fallen leader.

“J.J., see if there’s a local doc who’ll make house calls. A town this small might have one. Prentiss, go find a place where you can get some broth and a few cans of soda. **_Not_** …” a frown creased Rossi’s face. “… ** _not_** that deli across from the police station. Reid, _you_ go to that deli and warn them that the agent who ate egg salad there yesterday is really sick.”

Reid hesitated. “But it could be something else. Flu, maybe. Or it could be something he ate earlier before we even got here.”

“I know.” Rossi wasn’t in the mood to debate the issue. “But just in case, they should be aware. Don’t make a big deal of it if there are other customers around. Just warn them, okay?”

Nodding, the youngest agent turned and loped off down the street.

“Morgan, help me with him.”

Hotch was semi-lucid, but the fact that he let himself be picked up, wiped off, and transferred to the bed indicated how poorly he was feeling. Once tucked in, Rossi took a seat at his side, using a damp washcloth to sponge away the constantly self-renewing perspiration beading the Unit Chief’s waxy skin. Face lined with worried sympathy, Morgan hovered nearby, ready to answer any need.

“Dave?” Hotch croaked at the wavering image of his best friend.

“I’m here, Aaron.” Rossi kept his voice soothing and low. “Everything’ll be fine. I’m here.”

But Hotch wouldn’t subside, wouldn’t rest, had to communicate something.

“Eggs,” he rasped through the mild delirium of dehydration and exhaustion. “Eggs, Dave.”

Rossi stroked sweat-dampened hair back from the clammy brow. “Shhhh…Everything’s fine, Aaron. What about eggs?”

“They hate me, Dave. **_HATE_** me…”

 


	20. Brood(ing) Hen

The doctor who examined Hotch didn’t make house calls as a rule. But his curiosity was piqued. It wasn’t every day, or year, or even lifetime, that FBI agents descended on dusty, sluggish, little Los Gatos.

But the shivering, sweating specimen moaning his distress from the tangled bedding of the local motel wasn’t what he’d anticipated. There was nothing formidable about the man. He didn’t have the vague aura of danger the doctor associated with anyone meriting the title ‘Agent,’ an expectation fostered by too many Hollywood depictions. What the suffering man _did_ have was a knock-down, drag-out, kill-me-now case of what the doctor was willing to bet was salmonella. He shook his head in sympathy, assuring the sick man’s friends that what he needed most was rest, liquids and time.

“He’s in good enough shape, he’ll shake it off without antibiotics. But he could be out of action for a few days. Don’t expect him to have much appetite, but keep liquids handy. He should be able to keep _them_ down at least. Hope so, anyway.” The doctor rose from the bedside, medical kit in hand. “I’ll check back this afternoon, but if you get worried, give a shout. Literally. My office’s just down the street.”

He noted the anxious expressions exhibited by some of the agents. “Don’t worry. He’ll live to run around and get bad guys another day.” There was no way the doctor could know that getting bad guys wasn’t the issue.

Getting a woman pregnant was.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Once it had been established that Hotch was in no immediate danger, although he would be miserable for the next eighteen hours or so, the team retreated, leaving Rossi to make sure their leader could rest with as much ease as possible, considering his body was in full revolt. Unfortunately, physical relief wasn’t uppermost on Hotch’s mind, despite his acute discomfort.

He fought for concentration, fixing Rossi with one of the saddest looks the older man had ever witnessed.

“ ** _HATE_** me...”

Dave thought his friend’s disjointed thoughts were still stuck on his belief that eggs had singled him out with malevolent intent. His smile was indulgent as he resumed blotting Hotch’s perspiring brow.

“Eggs don’t hate you, Aaron. Some nasty, little bug got its claws in you, but it wasn’t an intentional act. I’m sure eggs think of you fondly, if they think of you at all.”

“N-o-o-o-o-o.” Hotch closed his eyes, taking a few breaths for patience and courage. “Haley,” he finally moaned. “Waiting for me. **_HATE_** me.”

“O-h-h-h-h, I see.” Rossi understood. “So you _did_ decide to fly home after all…” His eyes tracked the length of the Unit Chief’s weakened body. “…and then this happens.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Aaron. But, if it’s any consolation, I’m sure Haley won’t hate you. Women generally feel a little more charitable than that toward men they’ve chosen to sire children.”

Hotch stared, eyes glassy and fixed. Rossi couldn’t tell if it was because he was trying to wrap his brain around the possibility that his wife might _not_ detest him, or if he’d used his last burst of energy and was falling into a doze verging on stupor. And then he decided it didn’t matter which it was; he always found it disconcerting when Hotch’s unfocused eyes continued to glitter from between his lids even when he was, for all intents and purposes, unconscious. With a small, sympathetic sigh, using his index finger, Rossi stroked the bridge of Aaron’s nose until his eyes drifted shut.

“Go to sleep, Future Daddy. I’ll explain everything to Haley. And I promise she’ll still love you.” He grimaced. “Whenever you’re capable of reciprocating, of course…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Prentiss and Reid watched, profiler’s instincts turned up to full volume.

They tracked J.J. and Morgan as the two separated themselves from the group, huddling together in whispered conference, after which the liaison walked off even further, pulling out her phone. Although there was no chance of being overheard, she nonetheless glanced around, checking every few moments to ensure her privacy.

Prentiss’ eyes narrowed in predatory observation. “I’m telling you, Reid…they’re up to something. Something to do with Hotch.”

The young genius enjoyed puzzles and riddles. He’d abandoned his reading in favor of the real-life challenge of piecing together whatever hints and clues could be garnered by studying his colleagues. Waiting for the unsub was boring. Co-worker surveillance was an entertaining diversion. He’d been playing a number of possible scenarios through his mind, testing their viability.

“Maybe it has something to do with career advancement, Emily.” Prentiss’ brows twitched, but her only response was a dismissive grunt. “No, think about it. Hotch has held the Unit Chief position for a number of years now. Everyone knows he’s a hard worker, one of the most dedicated agents in the Bureau. Maybe he’s being considered for something higher up.”

Prentiss’ eyes continued to follow J.J., wishing she could tap into her conversation. It looked animated. “Then why would the others be in on it and not us?”

“Well, Morgan would be next in line to lead the team, so they’d _have_ to include him. And J.J. would handle all the paperwork, all the hardcopy traffic that’s attendant on promotions for both of them. Which means Garcia might be involved, too, depending on the documentation that needs to be made official.”

Reid was enjoying finding ways to justify his theory. Even if it wasn’t right, it was an amusing, mental exercise. “And Rossi would be in the know, because he makes it his business to look after Hotch. He mentored him into the BAU in the first place. I don’t think he ever stopped following Hotch’s career, even when he was retired and on book tours. They’re close. If Hotch needed someone as a sounding board about moving up in the Bureau hierarchy, Rossi’d be the first one he’d go to.”

Prentiss turned her attention to Reid, blinking as she considered the foundation of logic underlying his supposition. “Anything else?”

“Something like Hotch leaving the BAU would be on a need-to-know basis. They wouldn’t make it general knowledge until it was _fait accompli_. And we’re not essential personnel when it comes to kicking Hotch upstairs.” He grinned, pleased to think he had addressed Prentiss’ concerns, knocking down obstacles one by one. It was a satisfying feeling.

“I dunno.” Emily sighed, watching J.J. motion Morgan closer, then handing him her phone. “There’s just something…” She shook her head. “…something mischievous about Morgan’s involvement. And worried about J.J.’s. And smug about Rossi’s. You might be right, Reid, but there’s more to it. It’s something that is making Rossi almost _joyful_ …. I don’t think he’d feel that way if he was facing losing Hotch from a position where they get to see each other on a daily basis.”

Reid looked a little joyful himself as he set his mental faculties to work on another possible scenario. Until their unsub arrived, intellectual gymnastics were one of his favorite pastimes.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley stared at the phone receiver in her hand, a dull look in her eye.

 _I should’ve known. I thought bringing Dave in would tip the scales in our favor. But I should’ve known._ _We’re reproductively jinxed!_

She had just returned from shopping for the much-anticipated, frequently-envisioned evening of passion with Aaron. It was morning in New Mexico. She’d forgotten the time difference. Her husband’s day had just gotten underway with a visit from a doctor.

 _I should’ve waited until he let me know he was on the plane. No!..._ She gave her head a frustrated shake. _I should’ve waited until he was on the ground in Virginia._ She glanced toward the kitchen.

_Another batch of oysters neither of us will want. What a waste._

She hung up the phone and looked at the little hall table with its permanent tilt, remembering how it had been acquired. She ran her hand over the surface that had borne the brunt of her surprise pounce on Aaron, remembering how delightful it had been. Sighing, she eased the drawer of the slightly crippled table open. A leaflet stared back at her. A menu.

While Hotch’s abdomen was still cramping fifteen hundred miles away, Haley decided the next time she set out to create a romantic interlude with her husband, she’d wait ‘til the last minute…and then order pizza.

 


	21. Shell in Shards

While J.J. and Garcia argued over who would be the bearer of ill tidings to Hotch’s wife, Rossi made the call.

So when J.J. finally caved to Penelope’s assertion that being a liaison meant she had a much better handle on dealing with whatever emotional fallout might descend on the unfortunate messenger delivering the news of Hotch’s being incapacitated, she prepared herself for a distressing call to Haley. But there was no storm, no whirlwind. What she got was a leaden, defeated response.

“It’s okay, J.J.. Dave already told me. I’m kind of getting used to this, you know?”

The note of depression in Haley’s voice tore at J.J.’s heart, making her wish she could alleviate it, could borrow one of Garcia’s sparkling pens that looked like a magic wand and wave it over the Hotchners, making everything alright again.

“Haley, it’s not that bad. He’s not permanently injured. He’ll be fine in a few days. And you guys can try again next month.”

“Yeah.” There was an intake of breath that sounded suspiciously sob-like. “And the month after that and the one after that…until we’re old and gray and…and…”

J.J. sighed. Maybe it was time for a little tough love. “Stop it, Haley. You didn’t strike me as a quitter when I first met you. And Hotch sure isn’t one. It’s just really, _really_ bad luck. But luck always changes. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”

Silence broken by what might have been a small sniffle.

J.J. found that when she herself ran into obstacles, rather than wallowing in the unfairness of it all, it helped to focus on strategies aimed toward moving past them. She tried to turn the conversation to more constructive ground. “Look, when it does finally happen, when the timing’s right, you have to be prepared to do your part, even if it means, uh, operating outside your comfort zone. Why don’t you just concentrate on that?”

A breathy, little sigh. “H-how? I already watched all Penelope’s DVDs. How much more do I have to do?”

“Well…” J.J. infused her words with the kind of energy she associated with locker room pep talks. “Why don’t you put together a little go-bag of your own? You know? Like Hotch’s? Only yours will be geared toward…well…you know…”

She could almost hear Haley’s mind fastening on the idea, turning it over and savoring it. “You mean, _I_ might have to go to _him_? Instead of waiting for him to get to me?”

J.J. hadn’t really thought it through; she’d been tossing the idea out as a distraction from the latest disappointment. She didn’t think it would get as far as Haley intruding on a case; maybe hooking up with Hotch in the field afterwards, so… “Sure! Why not?” She warmed to the subject. “It could be like a little vacation. And you know what they say: ‘If the mountain won’t come to Mohammad…’”

By the time J.J. hung up, Haley’s inner tigress had stopped licking its wounds. Instead, it had rallied, licking its chops, already planning its next pounce.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Llewellyn Drummond didn’t appear with his cast of zombie-wannabes all day.

Reid and Prentiss spent the time puzzling over whatever secret their co-workers were guarding that had Hotch firmly ensconced at its center. After mulling it over, they thought the theory about the Unit Chief being promoted the most likely reality.

As with all theories, it needed testing. Reid might take the temperature of water by inserting a careful toe, but Prentiss was the type who’d take a running start and throw herself into unknown currents, trusting she’d survive the plunge.

As the group gathered to share an evening meal, which Rossi insisted be provided by any establishment _other_ than the little deli with the sour-faced teen behind the counter…just in case…, Prentiss addressed the company in general with an air of unconcern that hinted at knowledge long held.

“So. I guess when it finally happens Hotch’ll be relieved to have everything out in the open…officially, that is.” Her subtle wink wasn’t lost on the others.

Around the table, forks froze, poised in action. Glances connected. Spines straightened.

“Have _what_ out in the open?” Rossi’s question sounded like a reprimand. The looks he gave Morgan and J.J. made it clear he was holding one or both accountable for violating the bounds of secrecy. Before either could offer a defense, Prentiss pressed on.

“Oh, come _on_ , guys!” She feigned disinterest, turning her attention to the meal before her as she took a risk, delving a little deeper. “You think this kind of thing doesn’t get around?” She shook her head. “So when it happens, how long will we have before Hotch leaves us?”

Frowning, Morgan nudged J.J.. “Do we get paternity leave? I thought it was just…”

“ _Paternity_!?” Reid and Prentiss sputtered in unison. Rossi merely groaned, bringing a hand to his forehead as he tried to rub away the first twinges of what promised to grow into an epic headache.

“Hotch’s gonna be a _daddy_?” Emily’s delighted surprise wasn’t echoed by her teammates.

“Way to go, Loose Lips.” J.J. hadn’t been sure if Prentiss knew the Hotchner baby-plight or not, but she did know enough to be cautious. Morgan, on the other hand, had been lulled by the convivial atmosphere of a shared dinner, and had fallen once again to friendly female fire.

He threw his napkin down. “Oh, what the hell. I get that it’s a personal matter, but we shouldn’t have to keep secrets among ourselves.” He turned disillusioned eyes on Rossi. “This is taking way too much time and energy, man. If we’d all just lay our cards on the table, we’d be a lot more effective at getting things done…you know?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Rossi continued to rub at his brow, hoping to erase the tension gathering there at the thought of what he was about to do. “Alright. Cards on the table, since we can’t seem to play any other way. **_But_** …this still has to be kept under wraps from one person, _capiche_?” His glare was ferocious as it tracked from face to face.

“Hotch.” J.J. sighed, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment. “He’d be so embarrassed if he knew we were involved in this.”

Prentiss’ smug look of triumph at having unearthed the matter gave way to one of open, unbridled curiosity. “Involved? How involved?” She leaned in closer, dinner forgotten. “Cards on the table, guys. Tell us everything.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

By the next day, Hotch’s privacy had been completely compromised. But his colleagues felt like a team again; close-knit and capable of accomplishing amazing feats at which most would fail.

Hotch, on the other hand, still felt like a dishrag that had been wrung out and discarded.

The muscles of his midsection were sore from heaving. He’d been told by the doctor during a visit the previous afternoon, that he was over the worst of it, but would still need a few days to work his way out from under the debilitating aftereffects.

“Just take it easy,” he’d advised, patting his patient’s shoulder. “Don’t do anything too strenuous and keep taking in liquids. You’ll be fine.”

Knowing he was on the mend helped a little. But having something to occupy his mind, like work, would help a lot more.

So when Llewellyn Drummond, long-awaited unsub, was sighted by the Highway Patrol in an antiquated mini-van packed with movie-making equipment and a pair of hopeful starlets, Hotch insisted on being present when he was brought in. It took Rossi’s supportive arm to make it happen, but the Unit Chief was there, suited and somewhat dizzy, but there nonetheless.

Cuffed and outraged at what he saw as unwarranted intrusion on the artistic process, Drummond hadn’t said a word since hearing his Miranda rights. Lips pressed together in a grim line, he glared about as he was hustled into the Lost Gatos PD headquarters. But he broke his silence at sight of the FBI agent maintaining a shaky stance by the door to the city’s lone holding cell.

Drummond stared at the man’s gaunt pallor and sunken eyes. He approved the frame that hinted at decimation barely concealed by the dark, funereal suit. He assessed the slightly off-kilter posture that presupposed a truncated gait he would have dearly loved to see in motion.

Drummond couldn’t contain his professional appreciation.

“Ohhhh, man…you don’t even need any makeup,” he rendered his directorial appraisal.

“Ohhhh, man…You coulda been a _star_!”


	22. Homing Pigeon

The flight home was low-key.

Hotch spoke little. Huddled under a blanket Rossi had tossed over him, the Unit Chief alternated his time between dozing and sipping broth that had magically appeared from a thermos, courtesy of J.J.. When he was awake, Hotch stared out the window against which his forehead rested, brooding about what he’d say to Haley.

_If this was baseball, you’d have struck out so many times by now, the team would’ve traded you away, Hotchner. You’re worthless._

Morgan walked down the aisle, giving his boss’ shoulder a companionable squeeze in passing. Glancing up, Hotch noticed Reid’s large, amber eyes fixed on him, brimming with something that looked suspiciously like sympathy. The young agent dropped his gaze, returning it to one of his ever-present books. As he scanned the cabin, Hotch became aware of other eyes upon him, variously filled with compassion, pity, simple warmth. All of them darted away upon contact.

_They’re staring. I must really look like Death warmed over. Nice way to come home to your wife, Hotchner. Real nice._

He gave a dejected sigh. Nestling down into his blanket, Hotch tried to refocus his mind from his failure to breed to the success of having apprehended their latest unsub.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had let Morgan take the lead in the interrogation. He found the very concept of the unsub’s flesh-eating creatures revolting. Add in his recuperating digestive system, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have had to flee the room, heaving all the way. So he loitered with the others behind the two-way mirror, listening as Llewellyn Drummond justified himself to a grim-faced Morgan.

The convoluted logic of such twisted personalities never failed to amaze Hotch. This particular subject had been convinced that sooner or later he’d select actors who would realize their survival hinged on cannibalism. After all, it wasn’t unheard of in such situations. There was historical precedent. He’d cited the Donner party, and the 1972 plane crash in the Andes involving rugby players. Fascinated by survival cannibalism, Drummond had been determined to meld it with his zombie obsession. He believed his combination of cannibalism, snuff flicks, and Hollywood zombie-glamour would rocket him to underground cult success.

“A new genre.” He leaned across the table separating him from Morgan, eager to make a convert out of the FBI agent. “Imagine it…operating under the radar, on the fringe. Improvisational horror.” His eyes gleamed. “Imagine…”

“So you’d keep your ‘star’ prisoner?” Morgan saw so many holes in the plan, he had a hard time grasping Drummond’s belief that fame and fortune were virtually assured…if only the right actor for the part could be found. And kept.

The unsub lounged back in his chair, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “Wouldn’t have to. Think about it.” He paused, giving this poor, clueless agent a chance to follow the trail of logic spawned by true creative genius. When Morgan remained silent, Drummond giggled. He rarely had the opportunity to preen before an audience. So even if it was just an audience of one, he was enjoying flaunting his brilliance.

“Once the first film premieres, two things’ll keep my star performer coming back for more.” Morgan controlled the chill he felt from the glint in Drummond’s eyes as he leaned in once again, confiding. “Adulation has a powerful draw, Mr. Agent. Applause is a drug. I’m selective. My actors are hungry for it. I guarantee when everything comes together, ‘Birth of the Zombie’ will be a bigger hit than any of those run-of-the-mill, unimaginative drones that snag Academy Awards. My star will be the toast of independent, cult fans around the globe.”

The unsub rocked, hugging himself in self-congratulations for his assured success. “People will be begging to audition for me. Willing to do anything for a chance, even if it costs them their lives. You’ll see…”

Morgan pulled himself back from being entranced by this man’s skewed sanity. “You think that’s enough? Fame is going to make it okay to eat human flesh?”

The smug smile broadened. “No. Not just fame.” A chuckle bubbled beneath his words. “They won’t have any place else to go. Think about it. Cannibalism is one of the few true taboos left. Eating human flesh will make them a star. It’ll also make them an outcast. A social pariah. The only way they’ll be able to accept what they’ve done and continue on in any kind of life at all, will be to embrace the new lifestyle I offer. As a star. A repeat performer. They’ll learn to love it.” Drummond’s eyes bored into Morgan’s.

“Think about it.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch _did_ think about it.

So much so that, when he dozed off, his sleep was restless, populated with images from old horror movies and the fanatic eyes of Llewellyn Drummond. He cuddled down into the corner where his seat met the cabin wall, emitting occasional, small sounds of distress.

J.J. looked up from the game of solitaire on her phone. Her voice was soft. “Did Hotch just whimper? Rossi?”

The older agent levered himself out of his seat, concerned lines furrowing his brow. He walked back to the blanket-wrapped bundle curled into itself. Bending close, he listened, picking up on the tiny moans against the white noise of the jet’s engines. After a moment he straightened, smoothing his beard with one hand. He adjusted the blanket, tucking in a loose end, before returning to his seat.

All eyes were on him. Settling himself, he picked up the outdoorsman’s magazine he’d been reading before addressing his audience. “Yes, Hotch is whimpering.”

Morgan craned his neck in the Unit Chief’s direction. “Should we do something? Wake him up?”

Rossi sighed. “Look. He’s had a rough couple of days and it was an ugly case. His subconscious is probably working through a few things. Best let him be.”

The others exchanged uncertain glances, but ultimately resumed the various activities each preferred when passing time in flight. The silence was broken by another small sound from the blanket-lump in the back of the cabin.

Prentiss shook her head. “Guy wants to be a daddy? Sounds like he needs one himself.”

“Shhhhh….Emily.” Rossi scolded without looking up. “Cool it with the ‘daddy’ stuff. Remember. You. Know. Nothing.”

Reid’s voice came from behind the pages of a large book. “Anyone wanna start a pool on how long it takes him?” His nose poked over the top of the binding, looking for takers. “Anyone?”

“Shhhhh….” Rossi interrupted, intoning the set of rules he expected them to follow. “There will be no bets. There will be no suggestive jokes or comments. There will be no discussion of things parental or procreational.” He looked up, engaging each teammate’s eyes in turn. “Understood?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Sure.”

“You got it…Dad.”

“E-m-i-l-y…”

“Sorry.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley wasn’t sure what to expect this time.

When she heard two vehicles pull into the driveway, there was a moment of déjà vu. But her husband entered their home under his own power; not draped between his colleagues. Compared to the pants-deprived, poison ivy homecoming, this one was a veritable triumph.

Still, Rossi had felt it necessary to tag along, making sure Hotch got back to his wife without further mishap. He stayed only long enough to say a few words of comfort.

Standing with arms crossed, he watched Haley welcome Hotch into her arms, crooning small, sympathetic noises, reminding Rossi of the whimpering on the trip home that everyone heard, but no one would ever mention. When he saw Hotch bury his face in the angle between his wife’s neck and shoulder; when he heard him heave a sigh that seemed to release all the tension of the last few days, Rossi smiled.

“You two are going to make terrific parents.” The statement earned him sad looks from the couple. At the moment, it was a reminder of their inability to attain that goal.

“I mean it,” he continued. “The way you take care of each other says a lot about the way you’ll take care of your child. And there _will_ be a child. Of that I’m sure.”

Rossi was rewarded with a smile from Haley.

She’d renewed her drive and determination. And she liked the idea of her treatment of Aaron being a barometer of how she’d fare as a mother. She’d spent the last few hours planning her man’s care and feeding. From meals that would soothe delicate digestion, to warming the sweats that doubled as pajamas in the clothes dryer, Haley was determined to make home so pleasurable that Aaron would exert all the influence and effort at his command to reach it on time next month.

 _And if he can’t…_ Her eyes tracked to the hall closet. _…then my go-bag is all packed and ready. Just like J.J. suggested._

 


	23. Nest Ready

“I’m sorry, Honey.” Hotch’s eyes were large and sorrowful, gazing at his wife in sincere apology, only inches away as, lying on their sides, face to face, they shared the same pillow.

Haley’s only response was to smooth one of her husband’s eyebrows, letting the motion carry her hand along the downy skin of his temple and into the thick, glossy hair beyond. Hair she kept envisioning on a smaller head that would one day tilt up at her with a gap-toothed grin, and fill her heart by calling her ‘Mommy.’

“I really was thinking about leaving the case early so I could get to you. I really was.”

Haley studied the earnest face, tracing some of the lines that gave it character and a certain rugged masculinity. Lines that hadn’t been there when first they’d met.

_Time’s passing. We’re both getting older. I want him to have a child before he’s too old, or too damaged by that job of his, to be able to play with it. Doesn’t matter if it’s tossing a ball around, or being a guest at a pretend tea party. That’s what I want. He does, too, even if he doesn’t know it. And time’s passing._

“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

_He’s forever playing catch-up. Trying to right the wrongs that crop up because of the choices he makes. But some things can’t be ‘made up’ for. Still…_

She chewed on her bottom lip, eyes narrowing as she considered his offer. It wasn’t a simple biological clock ticking anymore. The repeated frustration and the fact that Mrs. Hotchner was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted, had turned the ticking ominous. The clock was transforming. It was becoming a biological time bomb. And unless it got some satisfaction, detonation was imminent. Besides, she liked what Dave had said about predicting her success as a mother by the way she treated Aaron.

_And maybe it’ll let some of the steam out, so I don’t explode. Maybe it’ll drain off some of the frustration._

“Aaron?” Her voice was intimate, a shade above a whisper. Hotch’s brows rose, inviting more. “Aaron, I need to take care of something.”

“What? Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

Haley gave her head a half-shake, annoyed at the inaccuracy inherent in her choice of words. “I mean, I need to take care of some _one_.”

“Who?”

With a brief, frustrated sigh, she pressed her fingers against his lips, stilling him. “I mean, I want to look after someone. _Mother_ someone.” She pulled back, eyes grave with her admission. “I think it’s the maternal instinct at work. I just want to nurture something…some _one_ …I mean.”

Fueled by a desperate desire to take care of his wife’s needs, Hotch came up with the best suggestion he could. “Would it help if we got a puppy? Or a kitten? Maybe?”

Burying her face in her half of the pillow, Haley groaned. She’d never been a pet-type person. Growing up in her mother’s pristine home that looked as though it had sprung straight out of the pages of _Southern Living_ , pets had been considered messy, unnecessary nuisances. She wanted something else. “What I’m trying to say is…Aaron, how about if I take care of _you_?”

A few beats of silence followed. Hotch was trying to interpret this. Given the arena in which they’d been struggling for the last few months, he assumed Haley meant something of a sexual nature. But he was still suffering lingering bouts of nausea attributable to salmonella.

“Honey, I’d love to be ‘taken care of,’ but I don’t think I can at the moment.”

It sounded like the beginnings of a tigress’ growl. “A-rrrrrr-on! No! Not like that.” She emerged from the feathery confines of the pillow. “I want to take care of some _one_. Pamper them. Comfort them.” Her voice lowered, but the sultry, carnal note he expected was absent. “… _Love_ them. That’s what I want… _need_ …to do. Let me? Will you?”

So for the next few days, Hotch was compliant and complaisant, reveling…glorying…wallowing…in luxurious, physical bliss. Snuggled and cuddled and treasured as he’d never been. Not even by his own mother. Because he allowed it for once in his life. He was nervous at first, unsure what ‘mothering’ involved. But it turned out what Haley enjoyed most, was uncomplicated closeness. She was happy to hold him, letting the protective, jealous ownership deep in her heart overflow. _Mine_ , she repeated to herself over and over. _Mine. All mine. No one else’s. And I **will** make another from him. I **will**._

No demands were placed upon Aaron other than to be still and accept her attention. It was the first time he’d ever been forced to relax when there was no injury or illness severe enough to make idleness mandatory. It was just what he needed to vanquish the remnants of food poisoning. He recharged. Once he felt better, other interests surfaced.

And, in the end, if the little hall table regained some of its balance by virtue of having another leg crack under the unexpected weight of an FBI agent being ravished, it was a tribute to an infertile, but otherwise marvelous, weekend.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi knew it was just a matter of time.

The child _would_ become a reality. And a secret shared by an entire team, with the exception of its leader, _would_ become public knowledge.

He knew it was a race to see which would happen first: conception or exposure. He did his best to avoid drawing Hotch’s attention to the change in attitude evinced by the others. He cringed inwardly when Morgan gave his boss’ shoulder an affectionate shake in passing. Nothing was said, but it wasn’t something Derek usually did. The small treats that appeared on Hotch’s desk, tokens of encouragement from Garcia’s kitchen. The gentle reminders to eat lunch, to take an umbrella, to get some rest, to button his coat.

The extra touches.

The indulgent glances.

The little kindnesses.

If Hotch’s mind hadn’t been occupied with work and the ongoing tension at home of hopeful parenthood, he might have noticed his team watching, guarding, caring a bit more than normal. As it was, he reacted with polite, if a little distracted, appreciation, but didn’t manage to connect the dots.

A month’s worth of cases came and went. Hotch’s teammates were aware that it was nearly ‘time’ again. They exchanged apprehensive looks as each call came in, wondering if a case would draw them away from home…draw Hotch away from Haley. As each day passed without the words ‘wheels up’ being uttered, anxious hope hovered over the BAU. Gathered in the kitchen with an eye and an ear peeled in case Boss-man approached, a secret glee began to grow.

“I think we’re gonna make it this time.” J.J. had just come from her desk. Nothing beckoned them into the field.

“Have you heard anything from, you know…Mother Hen?” Garcia knew the time was close when Haley’s temperature would rise, signaling an egg in motion.

“No, but, any time.” J.J. grinned. “I think we’re gonna make it,” she repeated.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley’s monthly anticipation was growing. So was her anxiety.

She marveled that no matter how many times they failed, each cycle her hope rose like a phoenix from the ashes of the previous disappointment. She was doing things a little differently this time. Not that she believed in portents or omens or jinxes, she told herself. Not really. But this time she made an effort _not_ to think of preparing a special, romantic dinner. No oysters would find their way into her kitchen. No strawberries would wait in chocolate-dipped expectation.

But the urge was there. To do _something_.

To quell it, she left the house and walked in the opposite direction from the gourmet grocer’s that had provided such delicacies doomed to decay quietly in the Hotchner’s refrigerator, victims of the couple’s lack of appetite in the face of fertile failure. Her steps were resolute. She walked toward a place that would inspire her; that would remind her what this was all about.

The park with its cheerful crowd of children whose laughter and screams she could hear from a block away, would provide the perfect incentive.

_I won’t think about the things that’ve gone wrong. I won’t. I’ll think about how one day Aaron and I will have someone of our own to bring here._

She took a seat on one of the benches at the perimeter of the children’s playground; a special section of the park outfitted with swings, slides, a sandbox, teeter-totters, and a merry-go-round. She took a deep, steadying breath and watched the maelstrom of colorful life whirling around the grounds.

Before she knew it, she was smiling with renewed optimism.

Before she knew it, a small boy with dark hair that reminded her of Aaron’s stumbled against her.

Before she knew it, she was enchanted by his awkward apologies, and his puppy-clumsiness.

Before she knew it, she had fished a delicate hankie out of her purse to wipe the runny, little nose.

Haley asked him if his mother allowed him to have sweets. When he gave her an enthusiastic nod, she offered him a cherry-flavored candy to soothe what sounded like the beginnings of a dry cough. By the time she returned home, Hotch’s wife felt much better.

For a while, anyway.

 

 


	24. Fried

Haley took her temperature. Frowning, she charted it with faithful accuracy on the little calendar in the bathroom.

She’d seen Aaron looking at it that morning. He’d been standing so still, shaving cream spread across his jaw, razor in hand. Frozen. Staring at the graphic representation of imminent ovulation. It had been kind of cute, except for the stressful look in his eye. She wondered at what point performance anxiety might sideline him.

_Yeah. That’d be our luck._

So she decided to do a preemptive strike. The next morning she watched from the doorway as he knotted his tie, eyes straying to the calendar; drawn against their will. With de-stressing Aaron uppermost in her mind, Haley sidled up behind him. Leaning in, she wrapped one arm around his waist. She used her free hand to turn his head from the cheerful, bright calendar, removing it from his field of vision.

“Don’t worry about it, Sweetheart.” She rested her cheek against his back, tightening her hold, a one-armed embrace. “Think about it, and be ready. But don’t worry. Okay?” She ended on a light cough, feeling a tickle in the back of her throat.

Hotch twisted around, facing her. He gave her a doleful look. “Don’t _you_ worry about it? Can you honestly say you _don’t_ when you look back over our track record?”

Haley debated her next words, but opted for honesty. “I think about it all the time. But it doesn’t matter so much if _I_ get stressed. I can still do my part.” She cleared her throat, banishing the tickle that had crept back into it, this time burning like a molten ember. “But if _you_ get stressed, well, I read about it and, well, guys can sometimes get a little _over_ anxious. And…well, you know…”

He blinked at her. _Oh, my God. She thinks I might not be able to…”_ His swallow was audible. _She thinks I’ll worry myself **impotent**! Oh, God…_ He wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t like Haley to discuss things of an intimate nature unless there was a good reason. She’d been raised old-fashioned, proper, ladylike…repressed. The quixotic nature of the male organ was not comfortable subject matter.

 _So if she’s trying to talk about it, she must **really** be concerned!_ _And now I am, too!_ Hotch stiffened, but not in a good way. _Damn! Now I’ll be thinking about it. What if it becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy? Oh, God…_

Haley saw her error. Saw the strained expression on her husband’s face. Saw the frantic rim of white appear at the edge of his eye. Knew she had to do some damage control. Kicked herself for broaching the subject and accomplishing the opposite of her intention. _Mother was right: I **never** should talk about such things. It’s unbecoming **and** does more harm than good._

For a moment she felt the full conflict of her upbringing as it aligned itself against her recent education at the hands of Penelope’s DVDs.

Both Hotchners trembled in the grip of their respective doubts. Haley was the first to shelve her inner struggle, anxious to repair the situation.

“Aaron, let’s go for a walk. I want to show you something.”

 _What’s good for the goose, is good for the gander_ , she thought primly as she took his hand and pulled him toward the door.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid had been giving Hotch’s predicament some thought.

Fertility wasn’t an area of expertise for him, but his insatiable intellect latched onto the opportunity to observe a field experiment in progress via the Hotchners. He wasn’t quite up on the timing aspect as it pertained to the couple, but he was pretty sure J.J. was involved in tracking it all. Or at least had a better idea than the rest of the team about Mrs. Hotchner’s personal schedule.

“J.J.?”

“Hmmmm?” The liaison was sorting through incoming case files, holding her breath as crime scenes unfurled in her mind’s eye, hoping they wouldn’t entail being called out into the field. At least not for a few days.

“J.J., does Hotch’s wife know that the optimum time for conception isn’t confined to post-ovulation?”

“Huh, what?” J.J. blinked, pulling her attention away from the papers spread before her. She glanced around, confirming that no ears would pick up the current conversation. “Spence, we’re not supposed to talk about it, remember? What if Hotch overheard?”

Reid shrugged. “He’s not in yet. But do they know? About pre-ovulation probabilities of fertilizing the egg?”

“I…What?…I don’t know!” It didn’t matter if the Unit Chief hadn’t been sighted on the premises yet. She was still uncomfortable discussing this openly. Especially since Rossi had been reminding them on a daily basis about the need for discretion. And especially since she’d seen how Haley’s ‘secret’ involvement of two of them had morphed into a full-on, total-team spectator sport.

Reid seemed oblivious to her unease. “Sperm can live for days. A lot longer than eggs. So, they should have sex during the _pre_ -ovulation days, too. As much as they can. As many times as Hotch can.”

J.J. stared at her colleague, wondering if extraordinary intelligence always accompanied a certain social lack, or if Reid was just an exception, as he was in so many other ways. Still, he meant well. He always did. And she loved him like a hapless, little brother. She kept her voice low, confidential, but patient, without any trace of condescension.

“Thanks, Spence, but I know that.”

“Does Hotch’s wife?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J. was on her way to Garcia’s lair, hoping the tech analyst was in.

She’d been in the act of telling Reid to stop talking about anything fertility-related, as per Rossi’s orders, when the words had stuck in her throat. The idea of certain subjects being considered unsuitable for polite conversation was right up Haley’s alley.

 _But there’re health classes in school…and books! When they decided to start a family, she must’ve read some books, right?_ J.J.’d bowed her head in a moment of sympathy for the culture that spawned the likes of both Hotchners. Small town. Proper Southern gentleman. Proper Southern lady. _So how deep would that kind of upbringing go? Is it so ingrained in her that the subject of sex is distasteful enough that she wouldn’t do more than cursory research? But Hotch knows that stuff, right?_

She saw the coded lock on Garcia’s door glowing green, signaling an occupant and giving permission to enter. J.J. did.

“Penelope! How much have you talked to Haley about conception? Did you get the feeling she’s up on how it’s done?”

Garcia leaned back in her chair, a suggestive smile stretching cherry-red glossed lips. “Well, if she didn’t know how before, she does now. Those DVDs I gave her were wonderfully, high-def-initely explicit, Sunshine.”

“No. I mean has she ever said anything to you about the timing thing?”

“Timing thing?”

J.J. took a seat beside her friend, leaning toward her, voice earnest. “Look…Haley always calls us and says she needs Hotch when she thinks she’s ovulated. But Reid brought something up that I figured was common knowledge…”

Garcia’s eyes widened in understanding. “But for Miss Proper Lady _that_ kind of knowledge isn’t? Common, I mean.”

J.J. nodded. “Maybe we should call her. Just to be sure.”

“Wow.” Garcia turned to her phone. Shaking her head in disbelief, she brought up the list that contained the number for Haley’s cell. “Who’d a thunk? In this day and age…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Where’re we going?” Hotch had thought Haley wanted to show him something downstairs, but she was pulling him along the sidewalk, holding his hand in a firm grip.

“You’ll see.” Clearing her throat of an annoying feeling of congestion, she smiled up at him. “You’ll love it. I promise.”

“I have to get to work. Can’t you just tell me?”

“No. And you’re the boss. Can’t you call and tell them you’ll be a little late?” She glanced up into her husband’s eyes, seeing the conflict a workaholic feels at the suggestion he violate the inflexible rules of his own personal work ethic. “Aaron, I promise. Once you see, you’ll want to stay a while. You can be a few minutes late just this once.”

He followed her in silence, curiosity warring with the impulse to take a stand on the sanctity of his office hours when he wasn’t in the field. But when she pulled him into a grassy, tree-lined space where, even at this hour, children and their mommies or nannies or grannies or daddies were making joyous noises that hung in the air like music, Aaron understood.

And loved it.

And considered being late to work.

Haley saw his expression soften, the tension draining away. Maneuvering him to one of the benches, she sat by his side, twining her fingers in his, resting her head against his shoulder. The woman seated at the opposite end, also following the activity of the children, nodded a pleasant greeting.

“See?” Haley’s voice was tinged with longing. “This’ll be where we come to play, too. One day. See?”

He did. Hotch’s smile broadened, reaching the corners of his eyes, tilting them. Watching him, Haley decided to push her advantage. “There was a little boy here before who reminded me of you. Same hair.” She craned her neck around, searching.

The woman sharing their bench heard. Glancing at the man’s dark, cow-licked hair, she smiled. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing. You must mean Keith Ryan.”

Haley coughed, covering her mouth. The irritating speck in her throat that couldn’t decide if it wanted to itch or burn was back.

“I never got his name, but he was here before, wearing a green-striped shirt?”

The woman nodded. “That’s Keith. Hair like yours.” She raised her chin toward Hotch’s increasingly disobedient locks. “He’s my son’s best friend, but you won’t find him here today.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Haley sighed, clearing her throat once again. “I wanted my husband to see him.”

“Well, you’ll have to try again in a few days. Keith’s mom said he’s either got a really bad cold or maybe flu. She took him in to get checked out, but I haven’t heard the verdict yet. Still…” She sighed. “I’m sure my Ronnie will come down with it, too. And probably anyone else who had contact with Keith this past week. That’s the thing about kids; can’t be around them without picking something up.”

Hotch pulled out his phone, intending to call Rossi and say he’d be a little late coming in. He glanced down at Haley just in time to see her cover another cough, horrified awareness dawning in her eyes.

 

 

 


	25. Poaching Instructions

Hotch gazed into the stricken eyes of his wife, wondering what could possibly trouble her in this place where children’s laughter was the main ingredient.

He would have asked, but his call to Rossi connected. He raised one quizzical eyebrow at her before turning away to concentrate on hearing over the ambient playground noise.

“Dave? I’m thinking about coming in a little late. Any new cases I should know about?”

“No, nothing from J.J. so far. Everything okay?” The slight alarm in Rossi’s voice was understandable; Hotch was usually first in and last out. It would take a minor catastrophe to make him deviate from his normal routine. “Anything _I_ should know about, Aaron? And what’s all that noise in the background? Where are you?”

Hotch bent closer to his phone. “Everything’s fine. I’m at a playground.”

A beat of silence preceded Rossi’s response. “Why?”

“Haley and I went for a walk. This is where we ended up.” More empty air waves as Rossi thought this through, connecting the dots, assembling the pieces.

“She took you to see children.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.”

Rossi’s voice lowered in deference to where he was, and the directive he reinforced daily about the moratorium on speaking of anything parenthood-related. “Aaron, are you having doubts again? Should we talk?”

“No, I…” Hotch glanced toward the woman at the far end of the bench. Haley had moved off on her own toward the trees. It seemed she was on her phone as well. But the stranger who had already overheard them discussing little Keith, the dark-haired boy Haley had wanted to show him, was too close for Hotch to be comfortable giving Rossi full disclosure. Truth be told, he didn’t want to talk about it at all…how this time it was his wife having doubts…about his on-call virility.

“Dave, I’m fine. Really. But, thanks.” He noticed Haley’s back was turned. She seemed to be engaged in a heated conversation. “I’ll be in a little late, that’s all. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Okay. See you later. And Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

“The offer to talk is open. Always. You know that, right?”

Hotch’s grin was genuine. “I appreciate that. Thanks, Dave.”

He closed the connection and turned concerned eyes on his wife, curious about who or what could make her look as though she were… _What?_ He frowned.

_Mortified. That’s what she looks like. Angry and humiliated and…mortified._

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Hotch had pulled out his phone, Haley had been delighted.

He was going to make the call she’d suggested, telling everyone at the BAU that there was something else he needed to do this morning. _Like remember why we want children._

To Haley’s way of thinking, offspring were a large percentage of the reason to marry in the first place. It was non-negotiable. Marriage was about socially sanctioned sex, and babies. And if you managed to snare a male who made your girlfriend’s eyes pop with jealousy, so much the better. But that was just the cherry on top. The main expectation out of those wedding vows was the litter of progeny who would ensure one’s immortality. Anyone who said otherwise was someone whose opinions she would suffer with a stiff smile for courtesy’s sake, consigning them to the ranks of those best left off of invitation lists.

So she’d been very happy when Aaron pulled out his phone, but her joy had been eclipsed. The scratch in her throat, the strange flushed feeling that she’d hoped was associated with ovulation…both took on an ominous veneer in light of the news that the little boy whose nose she’d wiped had come down with something viral. Flu. Cold. Didn’t matter. Haley wanted to be in peak form to accomplish conception.

Then her phone had vibrated with a text message from Penelope, exhibiting the code word that meant it was part of their secret pact to keep Aaron in blissful ignorance of their schemes to hasten his entry into fatherhood.

<Mother Hen. Call P>

Grateful that her husband was occupied, Haley had moved far enough away for privacy. She noted that the chill that washed over her as she stood had nothing to do with the breeze. The small panic-flame ignited by the news of little Keith’s illness, began to grow. She hit <return call>.

 _Oh, what now!? Please be good news…Please be good news...Please be…_ “Penelope? Hi.”

Garcia dove in without preamble. “Haley! Are you and Hotch making it a point to have sex before ovulation? Not just after?”

Such an abrupt opening for such a delicate matter robbed Hotch’s wife of speech. It was just as well; she needed her breath for the coughing fit that accompanied the resurgence of the burn in the back of her throat. But when she recovered, she was still stunned at such an intrusive question.

“What?!?”

Garcia spoke with slow enunciation, giving each word time to sink into Haley’s affronted brain. “Are. You. Guys. Having. Sex. _Before_? Or just after?”

Haley glanced back at her husband, glad he was still occupied. Her response was delivered in a harsh whisper…and accompanied by a cough… “We make love as often as we can. Why are you asking me this? It’s kind of, well, _personal_!”

Garcia’s snort was eloquent. “That’s what this is all about, Haley! Getting you and the Hotch-rocket to blast off at the same time! And it’s been personal from the beginning!”

J.J. leaned in to the speaker, sensing a more diplomatic touch was needed. “Haley, it’s J.J.. The reason we’re asking is that we want to be sure you know that the days leading up to ovulation are prime time for conception. You might be in that window right now.”

Prolonged silence. J.J. began to think that instead of Garcia’s DVDs, a simple link to a website illustrating the basics of pregnancy might have been more useful. “Haley? Are you there?”

“I…I…Yes, I’m here.” She turned her back so Aaron wouldn’t see her expression…or that her nose had started to run. “I _do_ know that, but…I…for some reason I thought it would be almost a sure thing if we did it, you know…right after.” Her voice grew smaller. “And I didn’t want to  pester Aaron too much, you know? And…” She tried to sniffle her nose under control. “…and I don’t feel so well right now. I think I caught something. I don’t want to give it to Aaron!” It was almost a wail, albeit a daintier version; a ladylike form of angst.

This time the silence was on the agents’ end.

“ _You’re_ sick? This time it’s _you_?” J.J. stared at the speaker, willing it to transmit a denial, hoping she’d heard wrong.

Garcia was becoming more and more agitated. As with all undertakings, she had invested her heart and soul in the struggle to put the Hotchners in a family way. Listening to their hopes slip away yet again to the tune of what she considered J.J.’s overly-polite tactics, and Haley’s overly-refined background was too much. Penelope attacked, directing every ounce of her determined spirit toward the woman on the other end of the line.

“Haley! You listen to me! You’ve probably already infected Hotch! This is no time to back down! Take him! Throw him down and take him! You never have to worry about pestering him too much for sex! He’s a guy! There’s no such thing as too much! Just take him! Take him now!”

“B-but I _can’t_! You don’t understand! We’re outside. We…”

Frustration colored every one of Garcia’s words. “Haley, did you learn nothing from my DVD collection? Don’t you remember Dora and…and Ian? And the Great Outdoors?” J.J. watched in horrified fascination. The tech analyst was a pornographic cheerleader.

“But…but it’s a _park_! There are _children_ here!” Haley’s protest ended in a rasping cough.

“Haley, listen to me.” Garcia’s delivery became less strident, but still carried the full force of her colorful personality. “Block everything from you mind about viruses, about children, about being in public, about being _seen_. You find a tree or…or a boulder…or a bush…and you make that baby!” Her voice lowered even more. “Haley, that park is your battlefield. Fight for what you want. Win this war!”

The call cut off.

J.J. and Garcia exchanged looks. Both were thinking that either Hotch had come within hearing…or Haley had girded her loins, entered the fray, and, in true tigress mode, was dragging her prey into the trees.

Or both.


	26. Hen...Peck

“Haley? Honey? What’s wrong?”

Haley stared at her husband, torn.  Inside her head Penelope’s words…no…her _battle cry!_ …still echoed. But when she watched Aaron approach, with his crisply perfect dress shirt, his precisely creased slacks, his elegantly knotted tie…she just couldn’t imagine dragging him off, throwing him to the ground, rending and tearing his impeccable façade, and having her way with him. He just looked so…so… _clean_!

But then…her eyes tracked up, past the anxious, handsome face to the lustrous hair, increasingly disheveled by the light breeze coaxing the cowlicks into open rebellion. And she could imagine mussing him, oh, so much more.

But then…she felt the wave of feverish heat accompanied by the rawness of her throat, and hated the idea of passing something to Aaron. Aaron, who would suffer in stoic silence, but with such sorrowful, limpid eyes. Eyes that accepted whatever pain came their way, almost as if he felt he deserved it, imploring her for an explanation as to why she’d knowingly given him the sickness already lodged in her own body.

_But then…I want to balance that soul-deep sadness in him with the best, the most wondrous joy! A child! He’d love that so much…_

But then…she considered that, if she waited for this virus to work its way out of her, it would probably be too late to conceive a child. They would have missed yet another month. And the months were piling up. If they missed many more, a year would have passed since they’d decided increasing the number of Hotchners on the planet was in order. A year was too long.

But then…

“Haley? Are you okay?” Hotch looked down at his wife’s flushed complexion, watery eyes, runny nose. “You don’t look so well, Honey.”

It was like a dash of cold water on Haley’s libido. Appearance and attraction were inextricable. She always took special pains to make herself desirable when romance loomed. It was a whole ritualistic process involving perfume, filmy garments, strategically sluttish makeup, softly scented hair. _Well, except for those times in the hallway. On the table._ She had to admit, the spontaneity, without any preparation at all, had worked on both of them like an industrial-strength aphrodisiac.

But to hear her husband even hint that she was less than radiantly beautiful, coupled with how she was feeling, didn’t bode well.

“I think I’m coming down with something, Aaron.”

“Awwww…no…” The concern in his eyes was genuine. “Let’s get you home. C’mon.” He took charge of her in the way she loved, harboring her under his strong arm, pulling her in close against his side so she could feel the muscle-play as he moved, walking her home. And she could smell his warm male presence. She leaned nearer than necessary to enjoy the ripped, trimness of his body; a prerequisite of his job that she thoroughly approved.

By the time they reached home, Haley’s libido had revived. But Aaron was set on making sure she was comfortable, and she could almost feel his anxiety about being so late to work. She sighed.

“Aaron, I’ll be fine. It’s nothing serious. I’m just going to get a book and lay around on the couch. It’ll pass. You go on in. I know you want to.”

He regarded her with a grave expression. “I’m sorry you feel bad.”

“Go.” She wiped at her nose with one hand, running the other over Hotch’s cowlicks in a vain effort to tame them. “But go and comb you hair first.”

He started up the stairs, slowly, debating staying with his wife if she was ill. Haley watched his progress, appreciating the view as he ascended. One step at a time. Muscles flexing. Long legs. Lifting. Straightening. Nice-fitting slacks.

That did it.

Haley started up the staircase, a few paces behind him. “Aaron? You need to change your pants, too.”

“What?” He paused, twisting around in an effort to see himself, brushing at his seat.

“There must’ve been something on that bench you sat on.” She drew abreast of him. Taking his arm, she steered for the bedroom.

He was still trying to get a view of whatever he’d sat in. “I don’t see anything.”

“Aaron...you need to take off your pants. Now.”

Hotch was _very_ late to work that day.

 

xxxxxxx

 

As the minutes ticked by with no Unit Chief in sight, Rossi noticed barely concealed glee rippling through the ranks. He waited until the culprits were gathered in the kitchen, whispering by the coffee machine.

“What’s going on?” Silence fell. But individual expressions spoke volumes. For a profiler of Rossi’s skill and experience, it was an easy read. He turned to the one with the most triumphant, but somehow goofiest, grin. “Spill it, Reid. What has you all smirking like a bunch of teenagers telling dirty jokes?”

Spencer’s eyes widened in protest at being singled out. “I…what?…I…I didn’t do anything!”

“Then who did?” Rossi’s eyes tracked from face to face, noting the compressed lips, the effort to keep merriment at bay.

“Oh, come on, Rossi!” Prentiss broke, turning a beaming grin on her superior. “We all know what Hotch is trying to do…or _who_ he’s trying to do…”

“Emily! Enough!”

The female wildcard of the team reined herself in, but not without a parting shot. “Well, why do _you_ think he’s late? And just because we talk about it, doesn’t mean we don’t respect him. Or care about him. Or wish him the best. Or wanna help.”

“That’s right, Rossi.” Morgan finally let his own lascivious smile slide into place. “He’s gonna make a great Dad. And if he has some fun getting’ there, it’s all good.”

It was J.J. who managed to put everything in perspective for the older agent. “Rossi, we can keep a secret from Hotch if we can talk about it to each other. None of us want to embarrass him. But…” Her own smile joined the others. “…you have to admit, it’s kind of fun to see someone who keeps everything buttoned up tight inside, caught up in something so human…and kind of sweet. You have to admit…”

Rossi tried, but lost the battle. At last he _did_ admit defeat, joining the others, grinning at Hotch’s expense. “Fine. Your boss is adorable. Just don’t let _him_ know. That’s a direct order.”

There were murmured assents as the group disbanded, but Rossi heard Morgan chuckling and muttering to himself. “Adorable, hell. Man’s a _dog_. ‘Bout time, too…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Hotch stepped through the glass doors to the BAU and traversed the bullpen, he could feel eyes following him. For a moment he wished there were a mirror available. But he told himself it was because of his uncharacteristic tardiness. It had nothing to do with how he looked. He’d taken special pains to make sure the morning’s activities had left no trace on him.

Except for the one he couldn’t hide.

Still, he was pretty sure he could mask the slightly glazed, blissful glow in his eyes. He’d just have to concentrate on keeping a scowl in place; something he knew would happen on its own once he was deep in case files. But it wasn’t as though there were a billboard over his head proclaiming he’d come straight here after indulging in a carnal banquet.

Haley had surprised him. With the sudden onset of coughing and sniffling and fever, he hadn’t expected her to jump him, much less trick him into dropping his trousers. She’d taken the lead, denying him any escape until she’d used him up, leaving him depleted, ravished, sated…content…relaxed…limp…happy. It was part of the change that had come over her these last few months. Hotch didn’t understand, but he was thoroughly enjoying it.

Even now, striding across the floor to his office, trying to look fierce and professional, the memory of her working on the side of his neck, a particularly sensitive spot that could make him squirm and shiver, made a sly, private grin appear. He caught himself, erasing it. But all in all, he didn’t think anyone noticed, because no one looked at him _that_ closely.

That’s what he kept telling himself every time his mind wandered back to the bedroom, making his lips twitch upward.

 

xxxxxxx

 

From his office overlooking the bullpen, Rossi watched Hotch’s arrival.

In the wake of the Unit Chief’s passage, Prentiss and Morgan exchanged looks; eyes wide and brows raised. Reid did a double take, frowning and peering after his boss, then turning to the other two, conferring or seeking an explanation.

Before Hotch reached the shelter of his office, J.J. accosted him with an armload of files. It looked as though she were making a determined effort _not_ to stare at something. Rossi frowned. _Maybe he’s got something on his collar? His tie? His shoulder?_

He gave Hotch a few minutes to settle himself behind his desk, then went to his door, tapping and entering without waiting for permission; a privilege of their long friendship.

“So, how’re things with y…” Rossi stopped short, arrested by the livid bruising peeking out of Hotch’s collar, extending upward toward his ear. The leavings of Haley’s lust.

“Dave?”

“Never mind. I can see how things are.”

Rossi left Aaron’s office with a much more lenient attitude toward the team’s amusement at their boss’ efforts to enter fatherhood.


	27. Mother Hen Morphs...

Aaron Hotchner was not a vain man.

He could never be accused of spending too much time before a mirror. Primping and preening would never be included in activities to which he was prone. He had frowned in the wake of Rossi’s brief intrusion and cryptic remark. But he’d refused to dignify it with anything other than an adjustment to his already perfect tie and a smoothing of his hair where Haley often applied her efforts to the cowlicks he couldn’t see without preforming gymnastics with a handheld mirror. Which, again, was an activity foreign to his nature. Hotch ignored Dave’s comment, immersing himself in the familiar venue of legalities and horrors that attended his job.

So Rossi wasn’t surprised when it looked as though his friend would make it through the rest of the day without investigating how his mate had marked him. But the amusement factor was too good to pass up. He kept watch. When he saw Hotch headed toward the men’s room, he followed, hoping there would be no other occupants.

He was in luck; privacy was theirs. He waited until the younger man was washing his hands, head bent, oblivious to his own reflection; mind distant, caught up in the details of some case submitted for consultation.

Rossi stepped up to the mirror, straightening his tie with a nonchalant air. “So do you think we can expect the entrance of Baby Hotchner in about nine months?”

“Huh, what?” Hotch jerked back from wherever he’d been wandering.

“I said…can we expect the pitter-patter of little feet a few months from now?”

Hotch straightened, the task of hand-washing temporarily forgotten. “We’re trying. You know that.” He frowned at the older man’s smug expression. “Okay, Dave. What’s this about? I’ve been feeling something strange going on around here since I walked in the door.”

Rossi finished perfecting his tie, giving Hotch a sidelong, sly look before responding. When he did, it was to reach over and hook a finger in the side of the Unit Chief’s collar. Pulling the fabric down, he turned Hotch just enough so the bruised area of his neck was visible, if he strained his eyes sideways at his own reflection.

“Oh, God.”

Rossi tilted his head, viewing the incriminating damage from different angles. “Don’t worry, Aaron. It wasn’t _this_ noticeable when you walked through the bullpen. It’s gotten a lot darker since then.”

“Oh, God.”

With the prideful intonation a manager would offer his winning prizefighter, Rossi crushed the younger man in a one-armed hug. “That’s…my…good…boy. Keep it up. You’ll be a Daddy in no time.”

Rossi left Hotch busy trying to edge his collar upward by virtue of inching his tie higher, a maneuver that made it look as though he were trying to hang himself.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Aaron Hotchner was a liberal-minded man.

When it came to others. When it came to his own personal code of morals and ethics, he was as hidebound as his wife; spawned by the same social pressures, even though his family background was quite different from hers.

So after his initial bout of trying to conceal Haley’s handiwork, he paused, studying himself in the mirror, looking deeper than surface. After a while, his brow cleared, and a tentative smile emerged. He craned his neck, able only to see the leading edge of the bruise along its side. Even now, hours later and chagrined, the memory of being nibbled by his wife gave him the feeling of butterflies and field mice scurrying through his stomach. It was an anxious sort of tension; a pleasurable prelude that made his whole body eager.

 _I’m married. I’m allowed to have a sex life. And a good one, too. No one thinks I go home and sleep in a suit and tie in a room by myself._ Still, the very idea of being the subject of speculation when it came to his private life sent a small frisson of humiliation coursing through him. _But I **liked** it when Haley did this to me. And they’ve already seen it._

With an air of injured dignity, Hotch folded his collar down, restoring his tie to its classic Windsor knot. When he returned to his office, head held high, no one suspected him of harboring the tiny souvenir of his gentlemanly upbringing; a secret shiver of shame locked inside, keeping the butterflies and field mice company.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“It didn’t take.”

Garcia, J.J., and Haley were holding their monthly Operation Ovulation meeting at the little table in the mall’s food court. It had become their official meeting place; one where they could seem to have a random encounter without alerting Hotch to any subterfuge.

It had been three weeks since the Unit Chief had provided unintentional entertainment of the hickey variety for the entire BAU. Afterwards, Haley had been sidelined for days with a shocking cold, attended by explosive sneezing and lung-ejecting coughs. The team had been called out twice on cases that kept them in the field for a total of twelve days. Throughout it all, the underground communication network that included everyone now, except their leader, had waited for word of a mini-Hotch in the wings with baited breath.

In the field itself, the team had honed their respective, clandestine roles to perfection. Morgan and Prentiss shared responsibility for protecting their boss’ physical body. Emily exercised a leavening effect on Derek’s sometimes overzealous performance of his duties. With Prentiss present, a push would morph into a nudge; Morgan used his strength more gently, sparing the Unit Chief unnecessary roughness while still keeping him safe.

With Morgan and Prentiss devoted to safety, Rossi continued to ride herd on Hotch’s wellness. He found Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge a handy tool when steering Aaron toward the best nutritional choices for maintaining optimum health. The young genius also had ideas that helped lull tense Hotch to rest more peacefully. Rossi had been skeptical when Reid had surreptitiously tucked freshly-picked sprigs of lavender inside Hotch’s pillowcase, but the next morning Aaron emerged from his hotel room without the dark circles under his eyes that usually characterized him during a case.

J.J. filled the liaison position by default. She made sure communication between Garcia and Haley flowed through the channels that would keep everyone informed…except Hotch.

They had been in the field when Haley had determined that she still wasn’t pregnant. Even after doing her carnal best to drain her husband of every vital fluid in his body. In silence the team drew together. Rossi noted once again the tiny, extra gestures of care and kindness directed toward Hotch. This time, he didn’t begrudge them.

Now, Haley had arrived at the food court regular meeting to repeat the news.

“It didn’t take.”

“I’m sorry.” Garcia’s eyes brimmed with liquid sympathy.

“It’s probably because you were sick,” J.J. offered. “That’s one of the things that can throw ovulation off. Sickness, stress…you know…that kind of stuff.” She expected beautifully-bred, demure Haley to respond with tears, maybe some whining. She was wrong.

Haley’s lips pressed together with enough force to crush a clam. “Enough. I’ve had enough.” She turned eyes that blazed on her co-conspirators. “My go-bag is ready. _I’m_ ready. I don’t care where Aaron is. The next time I need him, I will hunt him down and take him.” Her voice was gravelly with emotion. “You guys can help, or not. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her gaze tracked to Garcia. “You were right, Penelope. This is my battlefield. Aaron is my quarry.

“I know in every fiber, every cell…I know to the height and depth and breadth of my soul…” Garcia and J.J. pulled back; a tiger’s narrowed, predatory, lethal eyes confronted them from across the dainty, wrought iron table.

“Next time…I. Will. Be. With. Child.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia and J.J. hurried back to the BAU.

“Do you think she was serious?” Penelope somehow felt the need to look over her shoulder, as though a jungle cat might be stalking her.

“Do you think she _wasn’t_?” J.J. shivered. She wasn’t sure why. The last time she’d done so was watching the old movie ‘Cat People’ with Simone Simon; a twisted version of feminine deadliness in graceful form.

The two women’s eyes met.

“Poor Hotch.”


	28. Broken Wings

Haley’s steely resolve softened with time and pity.

Not just self-pity, although there was a fair amount of that. But she felt she’d made a promise to Aaron when she’d initiated this whole baby quest. She knew he was doing his best to help her succeed. Still, as her own frustration grew, she saw the effect it was having on his kind and loyal heart. He felt guilty whenever he chose his job over his private life. He would do what he considered best, saving lives and postponing his own, and then suffer, berating himself when he’d failed his wife yet again. She could see the darkness deep in his eyes when he’d return home, waiting for her censure to fall on his strong shoulders and fragile self-esteem.

Desire for motherhood could flare with intense heat, but when set against the years of indoctrination that comprised her childhood, Haley’s desire would leave scorch marks and a bitter scent against that wall of rules and codes of conduct. But in the end, the wall still stood strong.

By the time another potentially fruitful timeframe arrived, she wasn’t quite so ready to abandon preconceived notions of propriety to take to the road in search of Aaron.

The storm brewing on the sidelines, that Haley hadn’t counted on, was Garcia. The tech analyst had ignited when Haley proclaimed her own fiery determination at their last mall meeting. Her flames were banked, but ready to burst into a full-scale conflagration when the time came.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Penelope prowled.

For a woman of her sartorial splendor, prowling was accompanied by the clacking of stacked heels and occasional leavings: a few grains of glitter…a wafting bit of ostrich down. Here a spangle; there a sequin. Her resplendent, confetti presence was peculiar in that it had no immediate objective. It was a product of effervescing energy, lacking a target.

She’d been inspired by Haley’s declaration at their last meeting. It had been a performance worthy of the queen of the drama club, one of the jewels in Haley’s high school crown of achievements. Garcia felt motivated, formidable, but there was as yet no practical outlet for her enthusiasm. Still, she knew Hotch was at its epicenter, so she stumped past his office time and again. When the others picked up on her pointless stalking, giving her warning looks, she pulled herself in, instead entering the BAU numerous times to stare across the bullpen through Hotch’s windows.

“Baby Girl, stop it!” Morgan didn’t see how anyone could fail to notice Garcia’s colorful presence.

“Garcia, peripheral vision in a man Hotch’s age is still acute,” Reid warned in a hushed voice. “He’s going to know something’s going on if you keep popping up in it.”

Prentiss was the one who took action, since Penelope didn’t seem able to stop herself from hovering for the hopeful cause of procreation. When the Unit Chief went to refresh his coffee, she snuck into his office and half-closed the blinds.

Hotch didn’t seem to notice.

A particularly ugly case had come in. It was wheels up for Florida.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The case was quick and lethal and even though it was concluded in time for Hotch to return home to take advantage of Haley’s fertility, there was no rejoicing.

Sisters, ages three and five were the unsub’s last victims. The team had girded themselves mentally and emotionally as they always did for cases involving children. But Barnard Riley, luridly tattooed pedophile and murderer, had pulled a gun when he knew his spree through three states, at the stunning cost of four, young lives, was drawing to a close.

Hotch had been in the lead, following an almost occult inner instinct that told him the ramshackle cabin they’d been told was deep in a forest was where he’d find their unsub. Once at the trailhead, he’d taken off like a greyhound, outdistancing the others, leaving even Morgan behind, whose bulkier build slowed him as he wended his way through bracken and thickets.

All the speed in the world wouldn’t have been enough.

When Hotch heard the children’s cries, he burst through the decayed, wooden door of the structure in a reckless frenzy. He was stopped by the bullet that buried itself deep in his Kevlar vest. It dropped him to his knees where, gasping, he took in the scene of imminent horror before him.

They’d known Riley was a twisted creature, of course. Finding the previous bodies of his victims illustrated that. The man was a coward who hated women for not being attracted to him, and harbored fear in the depths of his psyche when it came to encountering them. He took revenge by spiriting female children away, dressing them like adults, and then using them as proxies for the real women with whom he would never enjoy an adult relationship.  

Fighting for breath, Hotch saw the little girls in their garish makeup and oddly mature outfits. His stomach clenched with fear and rage. Pleading with Riley, he was mindless of his own safety. He dropped his gun when ordered without a qualm; his thoughts focused on stalling until the others could arrive, and pick off this festering sickness in human form with a well-placed shot.

“This place’ll be surrounded in minutes. You can’t escape.” Hotch’s voice trembled with emotion, eyes fixed on the children immobilized by one of Riley’s brawny arms. “Put the gun down and you won’t get hurt. I promise.” Still on his knees, Hotch’s hand crept toward his ankle and the holster strapped to it.

Riley never noticed. Aware of the fate accorded child molesters in prison, he decided to send himself to whatever afterlife might await. And he took the girls with him. Because they’d been so much fun, he didn’t want to lose them. The FBI agent didn’t matter.

Crashing through the brush, Morgan heard shots and Hotch’s scream. It was a split-second before his adrenaline-fueled brain registered that the children’s cries had stopped. Three shots. He reached the door seconds before the rest of the team. Just in time to see his boss cradling the tiny, dying body of three-year-old Angie Sachs, murmuring soft, low endearments to ease the small soul on its way.

There’d never been any chance of saving either girl. But they always hoped. Always. It made them try their hardest when circumstances were bleak. Hope gave them resolve and strength.

And hope hurt.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had been checked out and released.

The flight home was subdued. When their leader took a seat away from his team, no one thought to intrude, no one tried to breech his silence. He still wore his blood-soaked shirt, the one against which little Angie had breathed her last. J.J.’s eyes kept returning to the stains.

“He’s got clean clothes in his bag. Why doesn’t he change?” The question wasn’t directed toward anyone in particular, but Morgan fielded it; still standing guard over Hotch, even if only verbally.

“He isn’t aware of it.” He gave Rossi a pointed look. “He’s in shock. Has been since…since it happened.”

“That sucks.” Prentiss shook her head, at a loss as to how to help a man the whole team had been taking care of, yet who looked so broken. Each of them felt the sting of failure.

Rossi’s sigh was deep as he stood. “One of you call Garcia…She’ll talk to Haley.” It was no secret among them who had taken on the role of cheerleader and self-appointed onsite facilitator when it came to Hotch’s wife.

“And say what?” J.J. already had her phone out.

Rossi glanced down at her. “Say that this homecoming needs to be handled differently. Babies’ll have to be on the back burner. Hotch needs some space. At least for tonight.”

“Got it.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi’s stroll was slow as he headed to the rear of the cabin, giving him time to consider the dejected man staring out the window in his gore-covered shirt. He paused by Hotch’s side. When the glazed eyes didn’t acknowledge his presence, Rossi reached over, claiming the younger man’s attention by tapping on his temple.

“What’s goin’ on in there? Huh?”

Hotch didn’t startle. His realization that someone was near, that someone had touched him, was blunted, a little dazed. “Oh. Dave. Nothing.” He resumed his blank-eyed regard of the empty sky.

Uninvited, Rossi took a seat beside his friend. After a few moments observation, in a soft, private voice that paid homage to Hotch’s reserved nature as well as his secretly tender heart, Dave began talking.

“It’s always hard when it’s children.”

Hotch bit his lower lip in silence.

“You did your best, Aaron. You couldn’t have known that he’d do that.”

“Should’ve.” The one word dripped with self-loathing. Rossi recognized it.

“How do you figure? You’re not a mind-reader. None of us are.”

“I’m a profiler, Dave. It’s my job to know what people will do. My job. I’m supposed to know.”

Rossi studied the averted face; what he could see of it. “You know we don’t always win. That’s part of this job, too, Aaron." No reaction.  "We’ve lost children before. What else is it? Tell me.”

Hotch closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the windowpane. “The parents.”

 _Oh, no._ Rossi could almost hear the words before they left Aaron’s lips.

“I couldn’t go through that. I couldn’t.” Finally he turned his misery-filled regard on Dave. “I don’t think I can be a father.”  

  


	29. Home to Roost

“Haley? They’re on their way in, but…” Garcia’s normal, staccato delivery faded into uncertain silence.

“Oh, God. Aaron’s hurt! Did Aaron get hurt? Penelope? Talk to me!”

“No! No. Well, not much.”

Even over the phone she could detect the undercurrent of worry in Haley’s silence as she waited for full disclosure regarding her husband’s latest misadventure. “It’s just…I, uh…” Garcia took a breath and sat up straighter. “I don’t know how much to tell you. You said you guys walk a line between you wanting to know about his job and him wanting you to be an escape from the job. You know?”

Haley’s initial reaction was to insist on every detail, but she mastered it. Penelope was right. There _was_ a line. But… Haley swallowed and took what she considered a mature step forward in her marriage.

“Tell me what I need to know to help my husband.” She was giving Garcia leeway; a justification, an out if she felt she was betraying her boss by sharing too much information.

“Okay. Okay. I can do that.” Penelope pushed her ruby-red glasses higher on the bridge of her nose, shuffling through what J.J. had told her about the case and Hotch in its aftermath. “Well, it was bad, Haley. It involved children. And it hit Hotch hard.”

“Children? How? And what happened with Aaron? Can you tell me that?”

“I guess. Yeah. Sure. Uh…Okay, here goes.” Taking a breath, Garcia made an executive decision about the boundaries she could push. “A little girl died. In his arms. He’s kind of, uh, _out of it_ at the moment.”

On the other end of the line, Haley’s eyes closed in sympathetic horror that a child should die, and that Aaron should be the one to not only witness it, but be closest to it, _feel_ it. “Oh, God.” Sniffing back what felt like imminent tears, she gave an impatient wipe to her eyes. “What else? What else can you tell me?”

“Uh…that’s pretty much it. Oh! But…” Garcia remembered the thing that had bothered J.J. “…his shirt. It’s got, uh, blood on it, but he won’t take it off.” Her voice lowered. “They don’t think he’s noticed it yet.”

Haley’s lips parted a fraction as her jaw went slack. That detail told her more than Penelope could guess. Fastidious Aaron who groomed himself to perfection as far as he was able…She couldn’t help thinking of the rebellious hair on the top of his head. Even now, it made her smile. But for Aaron to be oblivious to a shirt stained with a child’s blood. That told Haley how deeply he’d been affected; how distraught he really was.

“Haley? Are you still there? Haley?”

“Yeah. Yes. I’m here.” Mrs. Hotchner pulled herself together. Her husband needed her. “Thank you for telling me. I won’t let Aaron know you did. Just one more thing?”

“Shoot.”

“Please make sure he gets home… gets to me…safely?”

“Oh, Sugar, you can count on it.” Garcia’s smile tinged her words. “Like it or not, I’m sure he’ll have an escort.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was unaware of his escort.

In fact, he was unaware of a lot.

Once they’d landed and made their way back to the BAU, the team disbanded. The concerned looks that followed Hotch were answered by Rossi.

“You guys go home. Get some rest. I’ll look after him.”

Almost everyone complied. Morgan lingered over his desk, watching as Hotch went to his office to stow his go-bag, Rossi close behind.

“Aaron?” The older agent paused in the doorway.

“Hmmm?” Hotch glanced up, but returned his attention to pushing his bag under his desk. “Go home, Dave. I’m fine.”

“Aaron, you’re not.” The declaration made Hotch look up again, blinking. “You’re not okay, Aaron. And you need to change your shirt before you leave here.”

“Wha…?” The look on his face might have been comical when he realized what a mess he was. But, brushing the fingers of one hand over the dried, rusty stains, the confusion drained from his eyes, replaced by a blank sort of tragedy. He was back in the moldering cabin, failing at his job. And learning what it looked like to lose one’s children.

Rossi’s sigh was patient. “Aaron, change your shirt. Now.” He watched as Hotch obediently pulled the bag back out, rummaging through it for a clean shirt. Halfway through pulling it out, he froze.

“Dave.” Frowning, Rossi took a step closer, concerned by the look on his friend’s face. “I had my vest on.” Hotch looked up, making eye contact. “I had my vest on and her…her blood soaked through? I had my vest on.”

Rossi’s voice was low and gentle. “No, Aaron. It didn’t soak through. You…you were holding her up against your side. Where the vest doesn’t go. It ran under the vest. You were holding her. Remember?”

Hotch nodded, looking numb. For some reason it was important that those last moments of a child’s life be sorted out, be kept straight. He was the only one who could do it. He was the caretaker of Angie’s end.

When he opened his soiled shirt and pulled up the hem of the undershirt beneath, he froze again. Dried blood was smudged across his skin. Rossi stepped forward, taking charge. “C’mon. You need to clean up a little. Everyone’s gone. No one’ll see you. C’mon.” Gripping Hotch’s arm in one hand and his go-bag in the other, Dave steered him out of his office, along the catwalk, and to the men’s room in the corridor outside the bullpen. He shot Morgan a mournful glance in passing, but didn’t say anything.

In front of the row of sinks, he moistened paper towels, helping Hotch wipe off the last mortal traces of a little girl. The Unit Chief shrugged his way into a fresh shirt. When he picked up the ruined one, Rossi attempted to take it from him.

“You can’t clean that, Aaron. Here…give it to me. I’ll get rid of it.” He extended his hand for the crumpled garment, but Hotch recoiled, moving it out of Rossi’s reach.

“No. I can’t just throw it away.”

Rossi misunderstood. “It’s not evidence, Aaron. Riley’s dead. There won’t be a trial.”

“No. I know that. But…” Hotch began to fold the shirt with care. “…it’s _her_ blood. I can’t just throw it away.”

Rossi’s shoulders slumped as he realized the problem. Sighing, he tried to think of some way to remove the gory shirt while appeasing his friend’s sense of duty. “Alright. How about this? A number of cultures believe that when you burn something, you release any spirit it contains. You free that spirit to travel upwards, carried on the smoke.” With deliberate moves, Hotch finished folding the shirt, tucking it into his bag. “We’ll take the shirt someplace outdoors. Someplace nice. With trees and flowers and birds. And we’ll set it free. What about that?”

Hotch nodded very slowly, considering. “We could do that. But it stays with me tonight.”

Rossi’s sigh was deep. He watched Hotch close his bag, pick it up and turn toward the door. “Let me give you a ride home, Aaron.”

“No. Thanks, Dave, but I’m fine to drive.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “But thanks for staying with me.” He patted the top of the bag gripped in one hand. “And thanks for understanding about the shirt.”

Without further discussion, the two men walked side by side to the garage. Nodding a goodnight, Hotch got into his car. He placed his bag on the passenger seat with care before giving Rossi a small farewell wave and driving out.

He never knew that Dave followed him home, just to be sure he got there safely.

And Rossi never knew that, two cars back, Morgan followed both of them for the very same reason.


	30. Lovebirds

Despite the late hour, Haley was waiting when Aaron’s key hit the lock.

She’d been determined to greet him with a smile, but when she saw the sorrow etched in every line of his tired face, she couldn’t. And when her eyes traveled down to his chest and she realized he wasn’t wearing the bloodied shirt that had troubled his teammates so much, they couldn’t help continuing their downward slide to the go-bag he’d placed by the damaged, little, hall table with such tender care.

She knew.

_He might have changed…hidden it away…but he’s got it. It’s still with him. It’s here._

“You’re back” was all she said before stepping close…something she wouldn’t have done if he’d been covered in gore…and sliding her arms around him. Tight.

“I’m back,” he affirmed, his voice sounding disturbingly weak.

Hotch knew what the calendar up in the bathroom indicated. This would be prime time for progeny. Not only was he in no state of mind to take advantage of it, but he wasn’t sure about children at all anymore. He’d noticed Rossi hadn’t tried to coax him back into a procreating frame of mind on the jet. There was no pep talk. No ‘buck up.’ No ‘you’ll feel different tomorrow.’ So Hotch thought maybe he was right. It was time to take a second look at the family plan. But it would be hard enough to tell Haley, who’d waited up for him to get a start on this month’s baby efforts, that not only couldn’t he oblige her tonight, but there might be a permanent moratorium on sex for anything other than pleasure.

He wasn’t in any shape to face all this…this… _mess_. Not with the feel of tiny Angie still in his arms. That thought cracked what was left of his iron coating. Hotch began to cry, hating himself for being weak, hating how he would have to explain this to his wife. It wasn’t loud sobbing. In fact, if Haley hadn’t been holding him so close, hadn’t been able to feel the pulse of sorrow through his body, she wouldn’t have known. He kept his head buried in the angle between her neck and shoulder. Hiding. Not wanting to begin the conversation he dreaded.

But Haley surprised him. She didn’t ask. Didn’t push. Didn’t do anything but tighten her hold even more. Stayed as quiet as his anguish. Until he calmed a little. Then she only whispered, “I know. I know. It’s alright. I know.”

The words caught at Hotch enough to still his tears. _There’s no way she could **really** know what happened out there. No way. These are just comforting nothings she’s saying. God, she deserves someone so much stronger._

She loosened her hold, taking control of his arm instead, moving him toward the stairs. She murmured comforting phrases, but they rang false in Aaron’s mind.

“It’s alright, Honey.” _No, it’s not._

“I’ll take care of you.” _You wouldn’t if you knew I don’t want to be a father anymore._

Then almost like a chant, “I know, I know, I know.” _You don’t! You can’t! You never will!_

            Then something happened that pulled the rug out from under Aaron. Something he’d never expected. Not in a million years. She escorted him into the bathroom, saying he should take a hot shower while she fixed him a drink. His eye caught on the little calendar shouting its message of fertility in neon-bright colors.

Haley saw. With no fanfare at all, she picked it up…and dropped it into the wastebasket under the counter. Hotch stared, tear-reddened eyes registering yet another shock in this day that had too many.

“I don’t want you to think about that.” She held his disbelieving face between her palms, brushing her lips across his with less weight than a butterfly’s wing. “Take a shower. We’ll talk tomorrow. Tonight, just rest.” She gave him a gentle push, then headed for the door.

At the threshold she paused, anxious to make herself clear. “Unless you _want_ to talk about anything tonight?” His eyes still looked dazed. “Anything,” she repeated. His stunned brain couldn’t wrap itself around much more. He shook his head.

“Then get cleaned up and go to bed. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Downstairs, Haley listened for the sound of the shower turning on while she poured a hefty measure of Scotch over some ice cubes. She knew better than to make Aaron a snack. She knew his patterns. As upset as he was, she doubted he’d eat until the day after tomorrow. And then, it would be with reluctance and only to still the annoyance of hunger pangs. There would be no real appetite until the little girl’s blood stopped haunting him.

Passing through the hall, her glance fell on Hotch’s go-bag. Upstairs, she could hear the shower still running. She placed his drink on the unstable, little, hall table with care. Kneeling, she unzipped the bag.

It was on top.

She lifted it out, cradling it in both hands. _Oh, my God._ Her throat closed. Her stomach rolled, then lurched. _Oh, Aaron. I see._

She wasn’t aware of the tears dripping down her cheeks, or of the time that passed, or of the shower turning off. It was his voice that broke through the spell cast by little Angie’s blood.

“Haley? What are you doing?”

She stayed focused on the shirt. “Nothing. Crying.”

Hotch didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even sure what to feel. That changed in the next few minutes. Haley replaced the shirt with its graphic tale of a child’s death. She laid it down as softly, as reverently, as though it were the bleeding body itself. 

A frisson of alarm traveled through Hotch. _She said she knew. How could she? **Does** she?_ “Haley?” he asked again.

She stood, eyes still fastened on the rusty stain, harsh against the fine, white, dress shirt. Finally, she looked at her husband, mind racing as she realized she needed to protect Garcia’s role in letting her know what had happened.

“It wasn’t your blood, Aaron.” She sniffed back the last of her tears. “It wasn’t yours and for that I’m grateful. But…” She looked at his tragic face, understanding fully for the first time. “…but it was someone’s. And you must have held them to get…that _much_ …on you.”

She reached for the tumbler of Scotch, ice cubes half-melted by now. Taking a healthy sip of her own first, she passed it to Aaron.

Side by side, her arm around his waist; his across her shoulders, they ascended the stairs.

“I brought it home, because…”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“You couldn’t leave that part of them. Couldn’t abandon it. And you probably blame yourself. And I love you.”

That night there was no talk of babies or family plans. They shared the drink, curled against each other, thinking of the owner of the blood,

…on the shirt,

…in the bag,

…by the table,

…in the hall,

…in a home that was ready...

...for a child.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In the morning, they were still close.

It was comfortable, companionable. Neither wanted to go downstairs to confront the go-bag and its contents. Yet, in the chill light of day, it seemed less likely that it was anything but a blood-stained shirt. Angie’s spirit wasn’t so close with the sounds of life and traffic drifting up from the residential street. Still, the noise made her death more tragic. It was dawn. And there was a little girl who would never see another.

It was easier to talk upstairs. And Aaron had some things that needed saying.

“Haley…” He had to force the words out, dreading their consequences. “Haley…I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a parent.”

She edged closer, face to face on the same pillow, eyes grave, knowing the trauma that had spawned his doubts. Frustration began to build in her, but she tamped it down. She anticipated a conversation that would require some delicate maneuvering if everyone’s secrets were to be kept; if the line between Aaron’s home and his job were to be respected.

“Why would you say something like that, Aaron?”

He hated the way his voice got throaty, presaging more tears. But when she asked him, the images of yesterday, of the cabin in the woods, came raging back. “Because I’m not strong enough. I’m not.”

Sighing, she took a moment to trace the ridge of his brow with a gentle touch, trailing her fingers along the side of his face, seeing each curve and plane as it might be repeated in a son or daughter. “You _are_ strong enough, Aaron. I know it.” Her fingers had reached his lips. She used their light pressure to stop the protest she felt building behind them. “Listen to me. All the way through. Without interrupting. And then I’ll listen to you, okay?” He nodded, as far as he was able.

“You always think there’s something lacking in you, Sweetheart. It’s your biggest flaw. The way around it is to trust how others see you. Or at least take that into account when you judge yourself.”

She could tell he wanted to argue, refute what he probably saw as her biased, overly-charitable opinion. She pressed harder against his lips, reminding him of their agreement.

“Do you think I would’ve married a weak man, Aaron?” Shaking her head, she raised herself up, propped on one elbow. “You have plenty of strength. You just care too much. You can’t help yourself from getting lost in how others feel. I guess that’s part of your job. But, Honey, you don’t let go. You take it with you and let it shape _your_ life, too.”

She decided to take a chance, touching on the events of this last case. “Something happened to make you doubt yourself, Aaron. I’m guessing it had to do with a child.” His eyes at once widened and saddened. “Oh, Aaron… _is_ that a child’s blood downstairs? Is that it?”

He didn’t answer, but she could tell how affected he was. She heard him swallow, saw his respiration grow shallower, quicker. In part it was the memory of holding that still, small body, and, in part it was the conflict of wanting to keep it locked up safe and close inside, so it wouldn’t color his home life.

Too late for that. Yesterday was wedged between them; was responsible for making him recoil from parenthood.

Haley’s voice was low. “If that _is_ a child’s blood, then you didn’t save her. And now you’re carrying that around with you, and you think it means you might not be able to save _our_ child? You think we’ll have a baby only to lose it? And you can’t take that chance?”

The liquid gathering in his eyes told her she was right. She felt sympathetic tears building in her own.

“Oh, Aaron…” She pushed herself up, leaning on both elbows, looming over her husband. “You _are_ strong. You’re just feeling this way because you got hurt and scared, and you need time to come to terms with it. You _are_ strong. There _will_ be times like this…when you don’t feel you’re up to raising a child, but those are the times I’m strong enough for both of us. No, make that ‘for all of us.’ For you and me… _and_ for our children.”

She could still read doubt in the dark depths of his eyes. “Aaron, most children are never in the kind of danger you see every day. You’ve taken the _uncommon_ and, seeing it so much, are starting to think of it as the _expected_. It’s not like that.”

She leaned over him even more. It flashed through his mind that, doing so, with her hair mussed from sleep, fanned around her face like a mane, she looked like a lion. She looked capable of anything. Especially motherhood.

“If you’re afraid for our child’s welfare, Aaron…know this…” The honey-butter voice that soothed and persuaded took on an edge. There was steel in it. Honed and lethal. “Anyone or anything that threatens a child of ours will have to go through me first. I will lay down my life.”

Eyes locked, Hotch saw beneath the Southern flower. Their child would be shielded by a creature of adamantine and resolve. Something as unyielding, as hard, as a diamond in a snowstorm.

He felt a shudder run through her.

“Haley?”

She mastered it even as she spoke. “’S nothing. Mama would’ve said a cat just walked over my grave, that’s all.”


	31. A Nest of Woes

When Haley was finished talking, and it was Aaron’s turn, he found he wanted more time to think things over, to formulate his words.

It felt strange to him, almost surreal, that she could touch on the experiences of his last case with such accuracy. It increased his estimation of her empathy; something he’d thought _he_ held the majority of in their relationship. Now he wondered if Haley did indeed understand his feelings, _shared_ them, but chose to consign them to a place where they wouldn’t interfere with life goals…like parenthood. He admired her ability to move past such obstacles, keeping main objectives in sight at all times. It increased his estimation of her inner strength. If nothing else, she had convinced him that she _would_ be able to prop him up, in the event he needed it, during the journey through raising a child.

But he still needed to think.

She left him to mull things over.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In the bathroom, Haley did a little backpedaling.

She fished the fertility calendar out of the trash, but decided against resurrecting it completely. It had been intended primarily for _her_ use. She hadn’t meant it to become a nagging barb that confronted her husband every time he saw it. Gentle reminder, yes. Shrewish demand, no. She tucked it into the drawer that was hers, pushing it back among the lipsticks and eye shadows that hadn’t suited her; relegating it to a place among the other disappointments. But not throwing it out. Not entirely. Not yet.

She was sure Aaron would come around. All he needed was time and understanding. Both of which set up a stressful, little tug in her gut. Time, or rather its passage, was becoming her nemesis on a level with Cindy O’Grady, her chief competition in high school for every position and laurel she’d managed to garner. Even Aaron had been a contest between them. Who would land the handsomest boy in school? Haley had always managed to come out on top, though. A fact that could still give her a gratifying thrill, even now, when Ms. O’Grady had been shunted downward in her priorities as befitted an occasional encounter at class reunions, nothing more.

So Haley decided she’d relieve Aaron of the little calendar’s presence and give him time for the memory of the child who’d died in his arms, according to Garcia, to lose some of its immediacy. As for the understanding he needed…that was another matter.

Haley didn’t want to let slip to her husband that she was receiving feedback about his job from members of his team. And there was that ever-present line drawn in the sand, keeping the BAU from spilling over into their home. He needed someone he could talk to without censoring himself. Dave had said he’d be glad to help in any way possible.

Pulling out her phone, Haley closed the bathroom door with a soft click. Dave would fit Aaron’s need nicely.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi had been on the verge of phoning Hotch when his caller ID showed Haley trying to reach him. He wasn’t surprised, and cut right to the chase.

“Morning, Haley. How is he?”

“Hi. Yeah. Not good.” She kept an ear open for approaching steps in the hallway. She still didn’t want to go downstairs by herself. She’d prefer she and Aaron go down together for the day’s first encounter with his ruined shirt. Even if it was just walking past where it hid. “Dave, he doesn’t think he wants children at all anymore!”

Rossi’s deep sigh was sympathetic. “He had a rough time yesterday, Haley. How much did Garcia tell you?”

“So you know we talked?” It was getting difficult to keep the lines of deception separate, inviolate. The time-honored phrase _Oh, what a tangled web we weave…_ ghosted through Haley’s mind.

“I told J.J. to have her call you. Did she tell you a child died?”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “Yes. In Aaron’s arms.” She swallowed. “I saw his shirt.”

“Ah. That.”

“I understand why he brought it home, Dave, but having it here isn’t helping. He doesn’t need a constant reminder, you know?”

Rossi gave another sigh; one that could only come from the depths of a man who’d seen enough to know there were no easy answers. But maybe there were ways to dull the pain. Privately, Rossi thought there was no such thing as closure. And although he sensed Haley would like to put Hotch’s hurt in a box and close it up tight so it wouldn’t impact their lives, he knew how futile such tactics could be. Harmful, even. He wondered if Hotch’s wife grasped that this was just the latest in a career’s-worth of blows her man had suffered, locking it inside so it wouldn’t harm anyone else; so he would be the only victim.

_I wonder if she knows how strong he **really** is…has been for so long now. But every man has his breaking point. Aaron came close to his yesterday. And a lot of that had to do with where he is in his life right now. No man who’s entering fatherhood should have to feel the life drain out of another man’s child._

“We talked about the shirt. I’ll come by a little later and take it and Aaron out for a while.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll get rid of it in a respectful manner. Maybe he’ll feel better after that.”

There was hesitation in Haley’s voice. “What…you mean, like, give it a funeral?”

“Something like that. Just a way for Aaron to let it go.”

“Should I come?”

Rossi paused, giving the question some thought, but… “No. I think he might want to show a little more than he’d want you to see.” He felt the need to clarify. “Not that he’s hiding from you, Haley. But this is his work and how it affects him on a very deep level. He keeps it inside because he doesn’t want it to poison anything else. Any _one_ else.”

He thought he heard a catch in her voice, as though tears might want to intrude if she weren’t fighting them. “That’s what I hate about this, Dave. He’s strong. So strong. But he gets battered and battered and it makes him doubt himself. And he won’t let me help. And I’m strong, too. Strong enough to be there for him. We’re supposed to be a team. And I know he’s used to teamwork, as long as it’s with you guys. But he won’t…he won’t…” She cut herself off, partly to avoid raising her voice and alerting Aaron to this conversation, and partly to get her emotions under control.

This was entering territory Rossi didn’t want to meddle with. How the Hotchners dealt with each other within the partnership of marriage was too intimate for even the best of friends to influence. As much as he wanted to help, there were boundaries. Even as he thought it, he had to be honest with himself. He had more allegiance to Aaron than to Haley. And he really, really, **_really_** wanted to see them with a child.

So he gave himself permission to meddle a little. But not behind Aaron’s back. “I’ll talk to him, Haley. Can’t promise anything, but…well, just please realize he got hurt yesterday. Inside.”

“I know. Thank you, Dave.” A little positive energy flowed back into her voice, making Rossi marvel at her resilience. “I can help him, too, if he’ll let me. I just want him to be happy.”

“Then give him time to heal.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be by in a couple hours.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley wanted to go downstairs to make coffee, but…again…the shirt and all it represented was there. She felt it was important to face it, face the symbolic horror of everything that could go wrong when raising children, together, as a couple.

So, she returned to the bedroom where Aaron was lost in thought, soulful eyes misty with images of the grieving parents he’d met yesterday. She sat by him, gaging where his emotions were when it came to willingness to discuss what hurt. She patted his side, tracing the roadmap of his ribs, and startled when his stomach gave a loud growl. More of a roar, actually.

“Honey, your body wants food.”

He blinked, surfacing from whatever occupied his mind. With a small, rueful smile, Haley patted his middle. “Come down? Let me make you something?”

She already knew what his answer would be. “Not hungry.” It never ceased to amaze her how Aaron’s mind and body could operate separately; the one unaware of the needs of the other. It was just another division in his life. Things that she felt should be unified, working together, Aaron seemingly had the ability to compartmentalize to the extreme.

His stomach rumbled again. She lay down behind him, wrapping her arms around him as though she could still his hunger pangs by massaging them away. “I know you’re not hungry. But Dave’s coming by…” Hotch twisted, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

Haley hesitated. There were too many tiny lies piling up. She didn’t want to have to stand guard over each word she spoke to her husband. “I called him.” She saw the look in Aaron’s eyes. Not angry, but questioning with a wary edge to it.

“Why?”

“Because you need him. And because it’s okay to use someone else’s strength when your own isn’t the right kind.”

Hotch knew what she was doing. Setting an example of sharing a burden with someone else. Only this time, _he_ was the burden. Not something he relished. So even though he was still conflicted, still grief-stricken, still able to feel a little girl’s last gasp in his arms, he rolled out of bed.

 _If I’m going to make a decision about parenthood, for both of us, then I’ll do it like a man, not an invalid._  He said all the things to himself Rossi hadn’t on the jet home. ‘Buck up.’ ‘Think, don’t wallow.’

It didn’t really help. He still felt awful. Especially when he and Haley descended the stairs together, pausing before his go-bag on their way to the kitchen.

Nothing helped.

Maybe Dave would, but he doubted it.


	32. Little, Fallen Sparrows

When Rossi rang the Hotchner’s doorbell, he was met by a bedraggled Aaron who didn’t look much better than he had the previous day.

Shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks gave him a haunted look. Haley stood in the background, watching, hoping Dave would wave a magic wand and cleanse her husband of the damage he’d suffered deep in his soul. Stoicism was one of his trademarks, but she knew more than most that it masked an emotional, even vulnerable man. She liked that man. She accepted the grim façade that had developed over the years. But she refused to let it steer the course of their lives.

There _would_ be children. One way or another. She’d really prefer that Aaron greet them with joy and enthusiasm, though. Right now, he had about as much of those qualities as a discarded wad of gum.

Rossi looked at the downcast eyes before glancing past Aaron’s shoulder at Haley. She gave him a small, mirthless twitching of her lips that might have been an attempt at a welcoming smile. He reached out, gripping one of Hotch’s shoulders, giving it a companionable shake.

“Go get a jacket, Aaron. It’s a little nippy out there.” With obedience born of apathy, Hotch plodded off to find something appropriate for the day’s weather. It gave Rossi and Haley a chance to exchange a few words.

“Did he sleep at all?”

“A little, but most of the time I could tell he was awake; just keeping still so he wouldn’t disturb me.” She leaned around a corner, checking to be sure Aaron wasn’t within hearing. “And he hasn’t eaten. Drank some coffee, but no food, which is normal for him after a case, but still...” She stepped closer, nodding at the go-bag, an ominous presence in her home. “The shirt’s in there. Are you sure I shouldn’t come along?”

Rossi took a deep breath; one of many he’d need throughout the day as he tried to maneuver both Hotchners into more amenable positions. “I know it sounds as though you’re being excluded, Haley…”

“Only because I am,” her soft murmur interjected. Rossi rolled on as though there’d been no interruption.

“…but his intention isn’t to block you out of his life.” He pressed his lips into a thin line, closing his eyes for a moment, hoping he’d do Aaron justice in the explanation he was about to give.

“He needs to know at the end of the day, when he’s given all he has and he’s hurting, inside and out, that you’re waiting for him. He needs to come home to someone who’ll remind him, just by virtue of her very existence, that _this_ is what he’s fighting for. He has to know it’s possible to beat the monsters. If he can return to a place where love and warmth are the main ingredients, then he can keep fighting against those who’d destroy it. If he dragged you down with him…” Rossi shook his head, remembering. “…and he’s been in some dark, unholy places…then he’d have nowhere to shelter.

“You’re the custodian of his heart and soul, Haley. This job won’t last forever. But he’ll need his heart and soul when it’s over. You have to make sure the most important parts of him survive until then.” He caught, and held, her gaze. “That is no small thing.”

They could hear Aaron returning.

Haley wanted to argue. She wanted to say that she could do both. She could protect as well as share. Why couldn’t Aaron? But the immediate goal was to get him out the door for some alone-time with Dave. And for the shirt soaked in child’s blood to be removed.

So she gave a noncommittal nod, and when Aaron stepped around the corner, she adjusted his jacket as an excuse to touch him. She always felt the need to leave her imprint on him in the form of a hug or kiss or caress, as though it would draw him back from the dark places that beckoned him each time he walked out the door. She also liked to think of it as marking him as hers. Even with a presence as friendly and unassuming as Dave’s, she felt the need to make it clear that Aaron belonged here, with her… _to_ her.

He was her treasure, her most precious possession. That is, until and if, a baby came.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi let Hotch carry his go-bag with its bloody burden out to his car. He had a feeling it was important to his friend to be the one in control of sending little Angie’s mortality on to its next port of call. He wasn’t surprised when Hotch didn’t stow the bag in his trunk, opting instead to carry it in his lap, hands keeping it steady with a gentle touch.

They drove in silence until Rossi pulled onto the freeway.

“Where’re we going?” Hotch finally perked up enough to show some interest in his surroundings.

“State park. Spotsylvania.” Rossi glanced at his passenger. “You wanna talk about it?”

Hotch shrugged. “Nothing to say.” But Dave knew if he gave the Unit Chief space enough and time enough, whatever was gnawing at him would surface. Fifteen miles later, Aaron proved him right.

“How can I bring a child into a world like this, Dave?” The words were delivered in a voice rough with sorrow. Rossi didn’t answer, knowing there was more that needed to get out. After a few minutes… “If she had been mine, how would I tell Haley? How would I survive that?” His voice caught, but recovered. “I know you’re gonna say that _that_ kind of thing doesn’t always happen. But I know what it looks like when a little girl dies. I know what it felt like when she went…so…still… How can I raise a child and not be thinking about it all the time?”

“We’re here.” Rossi’s voice, in contrast, was smooth and calm.

He pulled off the road they’d been following for the last few miles, edging into a wooded area with what looked like a deer trail running through it.

 “Come on.” Rossi exited. As Hotch struggled out with his bag, he could hear the older man rummaging about in the trunk. When Dave came around, gesturing that they should walk down the trail, he was carrying an oversized, canvas tote.

Before following, Hotch set his bag back on the car seat. Slowly, with tender care, he opened it. Much as Haley had, he lifted the shirt out with both hands. Unlike Haley, he clasped it against his chest, holding it as he would have the girl whose blood it bore.

“C’mon, Aaron.” Rossi shouldered his own load, settling his free hand in a place between the younger man’s shoulder blades. He kept contact during their short walk through the woods, rubbing a message of comfort the entire time.

 

xxxxxxx

 

They emerged in a clearing still filled with the mist that had coated most of Virginia all morning. Rossi gave Hotch a final pat and then pushed his back up against a tree, propping him out of the way while he slipped the tote bag from his shoulder and unpacked. He kept a running commentary going as he assembled what would be Angie’s last rites.

“I did some research after I left you last night, Aaron.” He pulled lighter fluid, a small bundle of kindling and a blanket from his bag, setting each on the dewy ground. “If there’s anything you want to say to that child, you need to write it out…” He produced a pad of paper and a pen from the depths of the bag. “The smoke will carry your words to the same place it will send her spirit.” He gave Hotch a grave look. “She’ll hear you, Aaron. Whatever you want to tell her.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

While Rossi readied a small fire pit, Hotch sat cross-legged on the blanket spread on the ground, composing a letter to Angie Sachs. It was difficult at first, but after a few minutes, the words began to flow more freely.

 

‘Angie, you don’t know me, but I promise I’ll never forget you. I never told you my name, and I’m not going to now, because I don’t want you to remember me. I want you to remember other things. I don’t want to talk about those last moments, how we met or the time we shared. I don’t want you to think about that. I want you to think about how much you were loved and all the things that made you happy while you were here. I saw what you meant to your parents. You and your sister were the best things that ever happened to them. They had a picture they let us use to find you. It was your last birthday party. You liked pink and flowers and cake and picture books and dancing even when there wasn’t any music. I could tell all that from the picture. I could tell other things, too. Like how beautiful you would be when you grew up and...’

 

Rossi kept an eye on his friend. Careful not to interrupt, he moved behind Hotch and studied his body language as the letter progressed. By the end, most of the tension had run out of him. He knew when it was finished by the way Hotch’s shoulders slumped, by the way his head hung down as he heaved a sigh so ragged it was almost a sob.

That was Rossi’s cue to move in. He lowered himself to sit on the blanket by Hotch’s side. He slipped an arm across the rounded shoulders, comforting without confining. “All done?”

Hotch’s eyes opened, he gave Dave a sidelong look filled with misery. “You wanna read it?”

“No. That’s between you and her. Are you ready to send it?”

Hotch nodded, then levered himself up to a standing position. As he cradled the shirt with the letter folded within it, he noticed other things had been placed in readiness to feed the flames.

“Dave?” His eyes were fastened on the profusion of gaily colored satin ribbons, and two small, stuffed animals; a white teddy bear and a pink kitten.

“Little girls need hair ribbons, Aaron. And something to hold so they can fall asleep. I’m sending them some presents.” The matter-of-fact way Rossi said it, as though burning were the most natural way in the world to deliver goods, and always had been, helped. It let Hotch’s grieving mind make that small leap of faith necessary for this ritual to have true meaning; for him to believe. And feel a little better.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The mist that hung over the glade seemed to welcome the smoke, enveloping it like a hug. Angie’s blood, and Aaron’s letter, and Rossi’s gifts were carried upward, dispersing like a gentle, final breath.

Afterwards, as the embers smoldered and the last wisps curled into the infinite sky, Dave pushed his friend down to sit on the blanket once more. Away from the city noise, surrounded by nothing but the subtle sounds of breeze and trees and whatever small creatures shared their space, the men’s voices were soft.

“Feel better, Aaron?”

“A little, but…” He trailed off, chewing on his bottom lip.

“But you still think it’s an ugly world that children should be spared having to experience.” Rossi didn’t need a response. He could read the way Hotch huddled in on himself. “Well…” He draped a companionable arm across Aaron’s shoulders, rocking him off balance in an affectionate, rough way. “Let me ask you this: do you think Angie Sachs regretted living, or regretted dying?”

Hotch squinted at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you think she loved living and it was just the dying part that was bad? Answer me.”

“Of course she loved living. She hardly had a chance to do it, though.” Hotch’s respiration increased at the stress of having to put his pain into words. “It’s her parents who have to go on, who probably don’t get any enjoyment out of being alive right now.”

“You’re right.” Rossi gazed into the hazy sky, watching the last vestiges of smoke rise. “They’re suffering right now. But, there’s more to it than that.” Hotch was surprised to hear Dave’s voice crack for a moment, as if he were suppressing his own surge of emotion.

“Aaron, my son didn’t take one breath in this world; a world I would have laid at his feet. That was the worst pain of my life. But even knowing how much it hurt, I’d do it again. The only difference between us, Aaron, is that I _know_ I’ll survive. You will, too, if it comes to that…which it probably won’t, by the way. You don’t trust yourself yet because you haven’t gone through it. You can’t control things like that. They happen to you, or they don’t. It’s not your call. Because if you insist on _making_ it your call, you’re going to live your whole life in fear, trying to avoid pain that might never happen.

“You can’t do that. It’d be living a half-life, Aaron. You may think you’re controlling the bad things by making it less likely they’ll find you, but you’re not. What you’re doing is giving over your whole life _to_ the bad things.

“Whatever heartache comes your way, Aaron, as long as I’m alive I’ll be there to help you through. But I won’t let you hide.”

Rossi pulled Hotch closer, trying, by virtue of a one-armed hug, to crush some sense into him.

“And just so you know, a weak man wouldn’t have come out here today to say goodbye to a little girl. A weak man would have turned his back on her. You’re strong enough to be a father, Aaron. You’re already acting like one.

“Just ask little Angie Sachs.”


	33. Fledgling

Haley watched Rossi’s car drive away with her husband.

She stood at the window long after they were gone, staring, but not really seeing. She was feeling the difference in the house. How empty it became when deprived of Aaron’s big, warm, male presence. Every time he walked out the door, she wanted him back immediately. She knew it was something more than love. It was expectation and desire and protectiveness that bordered on possession. It was clear Aaron didn’t feel the same way. He _could_ leave and immerse himself in his job with a totality that made her as jealous of it as if it were another woman. She wondered why he didn’t care for her enough to make her his whole world. Never mind the practical issue of earning a living.

In Haley’s heart, it was impossible to love without engulfing.

Everything that took Aaron away threatened her. She knew this wasn’t how most people felt. Her own parents had been quite different. She could recall her mother being happy when her father went on golfing weekends with his buddies. It was like a mini-break for both of them. Each relished the other’s absence, but when they reunited, Haley had always been able to feel the deep contentment that re-asserted itself in her parents’ relationship.

She didn’t understand. She wondered if maybe there was more passion in her marriage than her parents’, despite Penelope Garcia making her feel like a proper prude. Maybe the comfort of contentment couldn’t exist side by side with the conflagration that was her desire for, not just Aaron, but _everything_! She could no more settle for contentment than she could abandon her quest for a child. There was so much more…so much _better_ …than being content out there. Why _not_ grasp at it? Why _not_ pull the man you coveted more than anything along with you, knowing how surprised, how _happy_ he’d be when he realized you were right all along?

The other thing Haley felt, or rather, _didn’t_ feel in the house anymore was the haunting spectre of the little dead child. Yes, those things happened. And, yes, they were terrible, tragic and heartbreaking. But they weren’t everything.

There was so much _more_ out there. It didn’t make sense not to reach for it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi let the stillness fall around them, the only human sound was that of the faint friction of skin against cloth as his hand alternately massaged and kneaded the muscles at the base of Hotch’s neck.

There was also Hotch’s occasional sniffle.

Sitting side by side, Rossi didn’t lean around to see if his friend was crying. It didn’t matter. Whatever Aaron’s reaction to the stresses at war within him, Dave was where he needed to be. He realized it was a microcosm of what he’d been trying to explain to Hotch. Being by his side, being the one allowed to offer comfort was an honor and a joy. But it hurt, too. It hurt to see this man who had no meanness in him, who worked so tirelessly to make the world a safer place, suffer.

Aaron was a puzzle. Haley was right: he had enormous strength. But along with it was a peculiar vulnerability, the genesis of which Rossi could only guess at. He knew that abused children could ‘escape’ their pain by splintering psychologically; producing versions of themselves that embodied parts of the whole, so that the whole would never have to witness its own agony; could reassemble after the agony had passed; could hide from it. And hiding was something at which Aaron exceled. But that kind of shattering split hadn’t happened with Hotch. He never would have risen as high as he had if there were anything substantially wrong with him.

Still, some kind of schism had taken place. Rossi suspected it was akin to splintering into multiple personalities _only_ in that it was a survival tactic. It had served Hotch well, so he continued to incorporate it into the different venues of his life. He kept agent-Aaron away from all the things that husband-Aaron had managed to weave into a domestic life.

 _It may work, my friend, but it’s not healthy._ Rossi could feel through the muscles under his hand that Hotch was winding down; the small shudders, so silent, so sorrowful, were easing.

At last, Hotch sat up a little straighter and expelled a long, quavering breath, letting the last of his grief out with it. “I’m sorry, Dave.”

Rossi frowned, still kneading the tight place between his friend’s shoulders. “For what?”

A sidelong glance said that Hotch thought Dave knew very well ‘what.’ “For losing it like that.”

“Ahhh. I see. Well, then. Apology accepted.” He gave the younger man a mock-fierce look. “And don’t you let me catch you being human again, you hear? There’ll be hell to pay, young man!”

“Stop it.” Hotch knew he was being reprimanded with a touch of humor, but there was something about it that brought his long-dead father to mind. No way Rossi could know, but Hotch didn’t want to be reminded of his own childhood. Not when children were already so much on his mind; Haley’s wish for one, and the loss of the one they were commemorating with smoke and tears. _And that’s two examples right there of kids who’d have been better off not being born._ He’d rather Rossi not go down that path.

But once on the trail of something he thought would pound some sense into Aaron, Rossi was _un_ stoppable. “I’m not kidding, Aaron. Down the road there will be hell. One of your own making, if you push emotional release deep down and deny it any expression. At the very least you’re courting ulcers and cardiovascular events.” He continued to work his way down Hotch’s spine, pressing on the tight places. “Do you ever cry at home, Aaron?” The initial response was blinking and another dark look. So Rossi asked again. “Do you? Ever?”

Hotch saw there was no hope of evasion. _Might as well get it over with_. “I try not to.”

“Why?”

“It would upset Haley.”

Rossi gave a sage nod. “I see. What do you think would happen if you cried in front of your wife?”

“I’d feel worse than if I kept control of myself.”

“Because it would upset Haley.” Rossi nodded again. “So…the way you deny yourself any release…this is all Haley’s fault.”

“What? No!” Hotch tried to straighten even more, to pull himself erect as a sign of protest at the charge Dave was levying against his wife. But the hand on his back kept him in place, as did Rossi’s other, moving to take a position in the center of his chest, allowing the hand on his spine to exert more pressure.

“Calm down, Aaron. You’ve got a lot of tension in your back. As long as I’ve got you here, let me work it out. And…” Rossi raised a brow in invitation. “…it wouldn’t hurt if you’d do _your_ part. Talk about some of the things you keep bottled up to protect your wife, your team, everyone around you…the world…the universe…”

More humor, but this time Hotch had to admit, to himself at least, that Dave had a point. So he heaved a deep sigh of defeat, let Dave’s fingers loosen his muscles, and let Dave’s easy friendship loosen his tongue.

“I’m tired of hurting.”

“Everybody hurts, Aaron.”

“I know that, but I don’t seem to handle it as well.” The body between Rossi’s hands gave up a little of its tautness. “I’m not strong enough. Not as strong as others, anyway.”

Rossi recognized it as the crux of the matter; the origin of the doubt about becoming a parent. He concentrated on working the knots out of Aaron’s tense spine, hoping the process would relax him enough to make him receptive, to make him at least entertain the concept of making some changes.

“You’re plenty strong enough, Aaron. What you haven’t figured out yet is balance. You need to let more joy into your life to keep the hurt from taking over. You’re a smart man, but for some reason you haven’t caught on to the concept of balance. Seems you can’t get involved in anything without tipping the scales to one extreme or the other.”

From his leaning position where Rossi’s hands could gain full access to his back, Hotch turned, giving the older man a quizzical look. When he tried to straighten this time, Rossi let him, giving a last affectionate pat to remind Aaron that his was a friendly presence, not an accusing one.

“That’s not fair, Dave. If I didn’t commit, if I went about my job half-assed, I’d lose my career. Not to mention the unsubs who’d slip away if we put out anything less than our best effort to stop them.”

Rossi studied the earnest face before him, realizing Hotch truly didn’t understand. “Aaron, you’re talking about actions. I’m talking about a qualitative difference. Yes, you should always throw all you’ve got at bringing in an unsub, but afterwards, when you’ve been successful, you should congratulate yourself. What _you_ do, my friend, is review all the ways you might have done it differently, always finding a way to berate yourself for not having done it better or, God forbid, _perfectly_.”

Hotch’s tone was injured. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do things better; with learning from your mistakes.”

Rossi nodded, his own voice going lower, quieter. “Then maybe you can learn from _my_ mistakes, Aaron. Don’t go through life without knowing what it is to give your love to a younger version of yourself.”

Hotch’s glance was sad. “Your son was stillborn. That’s not your fault. That’s not a mistake, Dave.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a gamble. One I’d take again, if I could. But…” Returning his attention to the peaceful glade and the misty sky, he tucked Hotch back under his arm. “…but sometimes things work out anyway. Even if you don’t plan for it to happen the way it does.”

“I don’t understand.”

Smiling, Rossi met the younger man’s serious gaze.

“That’s alright, Aaron. You don’t need to yet.” He sighed. “And if you ever do, I’ll explain it to you.”

 


	34. Back in the Frying Pan

Rossi could feel the weight of Hotch’s stare as they drove back toward Quantico.

He was determined to ignore the sensation, giving the younger man as much time as he needed to formulate whatever he wanted to say. But the force of that unremitting glare broke him. Finally, Dave’s lips began to twitch. He bit them to keep quiet. It was useless. Nothing could withstand the power with which Nature had endowed the Unit Chief’s eyes.

“Stop it, Aaron.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“S-t-o-o-o-p it.”

Silence, but Rossi knew he was still in the man’s cross-hairs. “Either stop staring at me, or tell me what’s on your mind.”

With children having been at the forefront of the day’s activities, thoughts and discussions, Dave could be excused for what came next.

“Aaron, if you’re a good boy and turn around straight in your seat, eyes forward, I’ll take you for ice cream.” He risked a glance toward the passenger side, verifying the calculating darkness glinting at him from between narrowed lids.

“You think I should have kids.” There it was. Spare and blunt and hovering between them like a cloud that refused to disperse. Like the mist into which Angie’s smoke had risen.

“I didn’t say that. Becoming a parent is a very personal decision. One you need to make for yourself.” Rossi paused, recalling his words. He thought he’d been very careful not to say anything definite concerning Aaron’s course of action. “What I said is that _I_ would have loved it. And _I_ would still do it, and take the chance that my heart would be broken and my life shattered by tragedy, if it were offered to me again.” He glanced at Hotch. The look was less fierce, but still fastened on him.

“Aaron, I’ll stick with you no matter what happens. You know that by now. But, I think you’d make some lucky kid or two or three or four, a great Dad. I think you’d raise them to be honest and hardworking and honorable. Just like their Daddy.” He took a deep breath. “And if the worst happens, and they’re taken from you…I’ll cry with you, and curse with you, and know what it feels like with you.”

Hotch finally released Dave from his gaze. He looked out the window, brow furrowed.

“Aaron, I just want whatever decision you make to come from a place that isn’t colored by what you see on the job; that isn’t made with fear as the motivating factor.” Reaching across the seat, Rossi squeezed Hotch’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to have any regrets when you get to be my age. The decision is yours. I only want you to be happy with it.” He sighed. “And it would be nice for a change to look at you and think ‘there goes a _happy_ man.’”

Silence reigned for miles. When they reached the outskirts of Quantico, Rossi gave a gentle, verbal push.

“Aaron? Want to tell me what you’re thinking? Do you know what’ll make you happy?”

Hotch gave a slow, deliberate nod before turning to face the older man.

“I think…I think I want that ice cream, Dave.” But the slow spread of a small, secretive smile told Rossi his friend was saying ‘yes’ to something quite a bit more important than ice cream. It was an uncharacteristically infectious smile. Rossi caught, and returned, it.

“Ice cream it is. My treat.”

Rossi hoped there’d be lots and lots of shared ice cream cones in Hotch’s future.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Rossi dropped Hotch off, Haley was waiting.

Other than a quick trip to buy Aaron a new dress shirt, a replacement for the bloodied one, she’d been puttering around the house most of the day, keeping an eye on the driveway, willing her husband home. Willing him happy. Willing him amenable to joining her in resuming their efforts to start a family. She wasn’t disappointed.

When Aaron walked in the door with his go-bag, now lighter the weight of a shirt than when he’d left, he was melancholy, but not as dispirited as when she’d seen him off. As soon as the bag hit the floor, Haley’s arms were around him.

“Are you alright?”

“Uh-huh.” He mumbled his assent into her neck, returning her hug, letting some more of his sorrow drain away in the comfort of her embrace.

“You sure?” She squeezed him a little tighter, still sensing that strain of sadness that seemed to be so deeply entrenched it was almost a synonym for ‘Aaron’ these days. _No. Not ‘these days.’ Ever since he got promoted to Unit Chief. Ever since other people, other families, started making him deal with **their** tragedies, leaving no room for his own._

She didn’t want him used up by other people. He _was_ strong, but there was only so much he could shoulder before the weight of others’ horrors, others’ misfortunes, crushed him. If she could prevent that, could insert herself between her man and the pressures vying for him, she would. But the best solution would be to separate him from that kind of emotional danger in the first place. _How many times can I pick up the pieces? Put him back together?_ She appreciated Dave’s help more than she could say, but wished it weren’t necessary.

Haley’d been raised to believe that a husband and wife should keep their troubles private behind a façade that would proclaim to all observers ‘Herein reside two perfectly matched people.’ Opening one’s marriage to outside help held a tinge of shameful failure in her eyes. But she did understand to a limited extent. Aaron had no family he could turn to. No parents to council him. No siblings to serve as sounding boards. So she understood that Dave filled a vacancy in her husband’s life. She was grateful, but still…

She pushed Aaron back and looked into his eyes, studying his face. _So handsome! Almost beautiful. So deserving of being passed on to a son or daughter!_

“Sweetheart, are you sure you’re alright?” He nodded. She noticed a trace of something at the corner of his mouth. Pale green? Reaching up, she wiped it away, giving him a puzzled look.

“Dave and I stopped for ice cream.”

She looked at the tiny fragment of what she knew was mint chocolate chip, his favorite. _So Dave got him to eat something, but I couldn’t._ She didn’t know it, but Haley was keeping count of all the little factors that contributed to dissatisfaction in her marriage, the mounting number of hurts. Sometimes she recounted them like a litany. _No children. A job that eats my husband up. Now a co-worker who feeds him when he has no appetite with me._

She took him back into her arms, surrounding him, claiming him. And she tried to make allowances for the way it was, rather than the way she wanted it to be.

“Well, at least you ate something…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

In deference to Aaron’s fragile, emotional state, Haley didn’t press him on the issue of babies for a few days. By the time he returned to work, they’d only been intimate once, instead of the multitude of times she’d originally envisioned. Not a carnal feast, but a meal just the same.

 _And once could be enough. As Mama always said, ‘enough is as good as a feast,’_ she reminded herself. Although the saying had been handed down with an eye toward keeping one’s figure trim and attractive, not in reference to family planning.

But she counted it a victory that he’d been the one to initiate it, and she hoped he was back on track when it came to parenthood. Whatever issues he’d been wrestling, maybe Dave had reconciled him to them. For that, Haley was more than grateful.

The true triumph came the morning Aaron left for work.

Haley had plied him with coffee and toast, a small victory when he usually refused breakfast altogether. She’d seen him out the door, with her usual kiss and the caresses that, in her mind, were more than halfway to being charms that ensured his safe return. Faced with a day that held no special plans, she’d been slow to get herself up. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth yet.

But when she entered the bathroom, she froze.

Sitting on the counter, in cheerful splendor, was the little calendar. Aaron had found it and restored it to its rightful place. They were a team again in the quest for children.

Haley’s heart swelled with love and hope.

But later, when she celebrated by picking up another home pregnancy kit at the pharmacy, her bliss was dashed by the gum-popping checkout clerk.

“You sure buy a lot of these.” She’d shrugged at Haley’s glare, plopping the kit unceremoniously into a paper bag. “Good luck with this one, honey. See you next month.”


	35. Flustered Feathers

Haley took her frustration out on the box the pregnancy kit had come in.

Pretending it was the clerk dispensing her unwelcome observation that Haley used an uncommonly large number of them, she stomped it flat before consigning it to the recycle bin.

Aaron had been so sweet and understanding for the last couple of weeks. Still that underlying note of melancholy, but he’d been open to letting her gentle a little of it away with cuddling and nuzzling. And even a few surprise pounces as she continued to reenact scenes inspired by Penelope’s  porn collection. Eventually, such behavior would coax a small, dimpled smile out of his usually severe demeanor…not to mention widened eyes and enthusiastic participation.

But, as with all things, once Haley had attained a goal, it soon became a plateau; one from which she felt compelled to leap, grasping for a higher level. She loved Aaron’s little smile, but she wanted to supplant it with the huge, beaming, oh-my-God-we’re-having-a-baby one that so far lived only in her imagination. So, at that month’s mall-meeting of Operation Ovulation, she leaned in with ferocious intent, aiming her words at J.J. and Garcia over their standard order of fries and diet Cokes.

“I’ve been keeping track of…things…a lot more carefully… _mathematically_.” Her eyes shifted from side to side, reassuring herself that there were no eavesdroppers. “I’ve been analyzing the data. I even made a spreadsheet, extrapolating from the data already gathered.”

For a surreal moment, J.J. and Penelope thought they were sharing a table with a strange incarnation of Reid. “And I think I can just about pinpoint, based on the last few months, down to the last few hours, exactly when the next _last_ opportunity is for Aaron to…you know.”

“Boink you?”

“Garcia!!!” J.J. agreed that Haley needed to loosen up, but she still adhered to the belief that the woman’s upbringing wasn’t her fault. She should be shown respect. And she _was_ their boss’ wife, after all.

Penelope spread her be-ringed fingers in supplication. “I’m just saying!”

“Anyway…” Haley barreled ahead, choosing to ignore what she considered unnecessary, rough language. “… _I’m_ just saying that it gives us a more precise target. I’m hoping this next time around we can pull together and we’ll know when or if to expend a little extra effort to get him home? Agreed?”

J.J. sipped her soda, giving Haley a reproving look. “We’ll try, but it’s not like we haven’t been doing our best already.”

Garcia shook her head, making the downy, lemon-yellow feathers woven into her hair tremble and flutter. “Honestly, Miz Boss-man, the way things have been going, I’m beginning to think you guys have a curse on you, or at least a hex on the Hotch-rocket’s missle…”

“Garicia!!!”

Haley managed to look properly disdainful of both language and suggestion, but deep in the recesses of her mind, an old recollection crawled its way up from her junior high days.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It was a schoolgirl dare.

One which Mrs. Brooks’ daughter, Haley, had thought would hit just the right balance between scary and fun at her slumber party composed of pre-teens who were beginning to learn the meaning of being frenemies, although the word wouldn’t come into vogue for quite some time yet.

“Truth or dare, _Miss_ Haley?” It was said in the most derogatory tone by her best friend, Donna Livingston. That is, they’d _been_ best friends until they found themselves competing for the title of Miss Sparkler, the junior version of the local Miss Firecracker, Fourth of July beauty pageant. Once that battlefield entered the girls’ lives, they began to behave like miniature versions of their mothers; unfailingly polite, sickeningly sweet, but each encounter slicing like a subtle blade dipped in viper’s venom.

Haley and Donna were the undisputed queens of Jefferson Junior High when it came to slashing an opponent off at the knees with a verbal assault that no adult could point to as unladylike, despite the sting it left in its wake.

As all eyes fastened on their hostess, wondering which option she’d select, Haley did some rapid calculations.

The point of the game was to publicly embarrass via revelations of the most personal, private sort. A truly victorious blow would leap the confines of the slumber party, carrying over into school-wide gossip. The only secret Miss Haley had that she didn’t want made public was that she went through a singularly large number of boxes of tissues…stuffing her bra so she could dazzle her male classmates and plead to her mother that she needed a larger clothing allowance, since she was ‘developing’ so quickly. It was a good thing Mrs. Brooks let her daughters shop on their own. Otherwise, she would have ferreted out the ruse the first time she accompanied Haley to purchase lingerie. Haley was careful never to change into her gym clothes in front of the other girls in her P.E. class, always taking the requisite shorts and blouse (no t-shirts for the young ladies of Jefferson Junior High) into a toilet stall. And always flushing the damning evidence of her tissue-enhancement. No one was the wiser. She was sure.

“Truth!” Haley lifted her chin, regarding her guests with pre-adolescent defiance.

A hurried, whispered confab took place as just the right question was debated. Finally, Donna emerged from the huddle of pony- and pig-tailed heads, eyes snapping with anticipation.

“If you could kiss _any_ boy in the ninth grade, who would it be?”

This was daring ground. Upperclassmen were known for snubbing the seventh-graders; looking down their noses at the poor unfortunates; storing up a last gasp of feeling superior before they were launched into the next grade and became the objects of contempt and derision themselves, as they entered the first year of high school.

Haley breathed a private sigh of relief. It was no secret that Randy Crenshaw was the dreamiest boy on the junior football team, with a muscular physique that made sports fans out of even the girls who didn’t know the difference between a touchdown and a tip-off. He was a bit of a schoolyard bully, but he only tormented boys who were skinny and awkward and beneath Haley’s notice anyway, so she let it slide.

And besides, Haley’d caught him sneaking looks at her tissue-stuffed silhouette several times. So had Donna. Haley decided her best friend was on a fishing expedition to see if…horror of horrors!...there was any mutual attraction between her and Randy, or if the way was open for Donna to toss her hat into the ring. Haley took great pleasure in delivering her answer with a sigh of longing.

“Randy. Randy Crenshaw.”

Donna gulped, her expression going sour as she realized they were rivals in more arenas than that of Miss Sparkler. But Haley had answered the question, so now it was her turn to ask one. She turned sly eyes on Donna.

“Truth or dare?” She drawled the words with an intonation that told everyone present that whatever choice poor Donna made, it would be imbued with as much humiliation as Haley could manage. Better to commit some act, than to bare her soul.

“D-dare.”

“Hmmmm…” Little Haley tapped her chin with the polished, sugar-pink nail of her index finger, a slow smile growing as she envisioned what was coming. “You have to go down the street to Old Lady Willoughby’s and knock on the door.”

This wasn’t much of a challenge. Mrs. Willoughby was known for her hatred of the mess and noise that seemed to accompany children wherever they went. She would shriek at them and hurl invectives. It had earned her many unsolicited visitors who would knock on her door or ring her bell and then run away, hiding behind the box hedges that lined her yard in an unsuccessful bid for privacy. Mrs. Willoughby would react with the predictable tirade of insults, thereby ensuring more knocking and ringing by fleet-footed youngsters.

Haley knew this. So she added a codicil that would up the entertainment value of the adventure for all who observed it.

“And! You have to _wait_ there until she answers the door.” Ohhhhs and ahhhs wafted through the girls. Then Haley delivered the coup de grace. “And! You have to ask her if you could use her bathroom!” Snorts and giggles indicated general approval and the anticipation of hilarity.

Donna swallowed, realizing any crown of superiority that she and Haley vied for was teetering on the outcome of this venture. “Fine.” Said with admirable indifference. “But this is sooo boring, _Miss_ Haley.” Donna gained a point for sticking to her contemptuous drawl.

The girls donned jackets and sweaters over their night clothes; this would be a quick outing.

They straggled down the stairs and out the door, muffling the mirth and chatter that seemed to be an unquenchable part of their age. Down the street they went, clinging to each other, pushing the sacrificial Donna out front when they neared the Willoughby house.

Donna drew on all her inner resources. She stepped through the opening of the box hedge, only glancing back at her wide-eyed companions once to make sure they were still in a tittering flock just on the other side of the hedge. She advanced to the porch. Up the steps. To the door. With only a slight tremble, her finger inched toward the button that would ring the bell, summoning the dreadful lady of the house.

But before that finger made contact, the door flew open, revealing the Willoughby in all her wrathful splendor.

“You girls git off my property!”

Donna pelted for the street. The others sped away with shrieks. But Haley heard the words that followed them as they ran for safety.

“A curse on _all_ your houses!” The stentorian voice bellowed from the porch. The Willoughby was fond of Shakespeare, paraphrasing the bard to fit circumstances she felt called for vengeance and powerful prose. “ _And_ on all the children in them from now until your lines fall fallow!”

“A curse on all that they may never take breath!”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Decades later, a tiny, superstitious corner of Haley’s mind shivered.


	36. Beaks Awry

Aaron was moving along in both arenas of his life, domestic and professional; doing his best, which in his estimation was never good enough.

However, he was beginning to notice the extra little bits of affection that were directed his way in the workplace. In the field he was usually too engrossed in the case at hand to pick up on the small gestures and extra attention. It was one of the luxuries of total trust that he could concentrate on unsubs and victims, turning his focus away from his teammates, knowing they would always be reliably, dependably professional. But at home, in the confines of the BAU, he began to see the slight, qualitative difference in how he was being treated. It puzzled him.

_Am I giving off some signal that I need help? Do they think I need to be bolstered up?_

Hotch was a brooder by nature. The more he dwelled on why Garcia was sneaking treats onto his desk; why Morgan was popping up in his peripheral vision as though he were on guard against anonymous, unseen menace with Hotch in its crosshairs; why Prentiss’ trademark smirk and sharp remarks had a less cynical edge in his presence; and why the others, even Reid, who normally avoided physical contact, were going out of their way to press little, comforting touches on him in passing…the more Hotch dwelled on these, the more concerned he became. He enjoyed it, but…

_Are they doubting my ability to lead this team? Have I gone off the tracks somewhere along the line enough for them to notice? To think I need support of some kind?_

As with most things that defied his solitary attempts to wrestle them into submission, Hotch eventually got to the point where he had to admit the need for a fresh perspective, a second set of eyes. He was a staunch proponent of teamwork, but not when it came to personal issues. For those, there were precious few ways for him to reach out, even if forced to acknowledge the need for help. But one was close at hand...

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Dave, what’s going on around here?”

Rossi blinked, looking up from the report he was proofing. “Wha’d’you mean?”

After a moment of narrow-eyed regard, Hotch stepped further into Rossi’s office, closing the door behind him with a definitive click. He moved to one of the large, leather chairs facing the desk, lowering his lanky frame into it with a cautious air. Not relaxing; sitting on the edge.

“Something’s up. People are treating me…differently.” His eyes locked with Rossi’s. “Why?”

Dave leaned back, tapping a pen against his chin, regarding Hotch from beneath half-lowered lids. He wasn’t entirely taken by surprise. After all, Aaron was an excellent observer and interpreter of human behavior. Rossi was glad the Unit Chief was approaching _him_ , rather than any of his other teammates. His ability to tap dance around Aaron was more developed than anyone else’s.

“What do you mean by ‘differently?’”

“You know what I mean. You’re doing it, too.”

Hotch raised his own chin. Each man studied the other with the same half-lidded calculation. Never had they looked more like father and son.

“I need you to be more specific, Aaron.” Rossi was stalling, buying time and building what he hoped was a façade of believable innocence. “I’m not aware of treating you any differently than I always have.” He frowned, taking the initiative of being the first one to do so away from Aaron. “What’s bothering you?”

It was Hotch’s turn to temporize. It was a difficult thing to put into words; a feeling that didn’t have enough concrete evidence to really warrant suspicion. But once he’d broached the subject, there was no going back, even as tentative and unformed as the signs might be. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them.

“Little things. I’m not complaining, but I need to know if the team’s view of me has _shifted_ somehow. And I need to know why.”

Rossi pushed himself back even deeper into his custom-made, leather throne, spreading his hands in a gesture that invited more. Hotch’s small sigh before speaking said that he was aware of being put through his paces by the older agent. He was sure Dave already knew exactly what he was trying to explain.

“Like I said: little things. Garcia keeps bringing me treats. She usually has stuff like that in her office for visitors, but now she’s leaving things on my desk.” He searched Rossi’s face for clues, seeing only the blank façade that Dave presented in the field when he wanted to avoid coloring responses during an interview. “She doesn’t do that for the others. Why now? What’s changed?”

Rossi nodded, finally giving way to a studied expression of deep thought. “Soooo…treats on your desk. Hmmmm…must be an omen, a sign of a deep sea-change in the stuff of which your team is made. Hmmmm…Couldn’t just be a woman who loves to cook, has no one to cook for, and has a skinny-ass boss. No…must have a deeper, more subtle, more sinister, more _profound_ meaning.”

“C’mon, Dave. You know what I mean. You’re part of it, too.” Faced with Rossi’s response of one lifted eyebrow, Hotch took a deep, long-suffering breath and tried to create a clearer picture of what seemed like atypical behavior. “You guys are _watching_ me. And, I dunno, being _nicer_ to me than usual.”

Rossi gave a sage nod. “And it couldn’t be that we watch you because you’re our leader? Because we take our cues from you? And…” He leaned toward the younger man; a professor leading a promising student to a revelation. “…this might come as news to you, Aaron, but the people on your team _like_ you. They respect you as their boss, but they _like_ you as a person.”

This wasn’t going to be easy. Even as Hotch’s frustration level rose, his determination to slog through whatever deflections and blockades Rossi erected, increased as well.

“I appreciate that. I’m flattered you guys would like me, but…” Hotch’s brow creased as he sought for the right metaphor to communicate the alteration in attitude he was sensing in his team. “…but it’s more than that. It’s kind of like they’re taking care of me. They’re treating me like a kid who…”

Hotch froze. Fell silent, eyes shifting as he scanned puzzle pieces that had just begun to fall into place. When he looked up at Rossi, open suspicion played across his features.

“Dave, does everyone here know that Haley and I are…are trying to start a family? Do they?”

Even as Rossi took a deep breath, genuflecting inwardly in hopes that some greater power would infuse him with inspiration, a brisk knock sounded at his door, followed by J.J. looking tense, delivering the terse words they never enjoyed hearing.

“Sorry to interrupt guys, but we have a case. Missing child.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Nothing lit a fire beneath the BAU like an Amber alert.

They knew their time was limited. They were fighting statistical odds as soon as the child was snatched. No time for rest. No time for delays or distractions of any sort. Team focus had to be intense and unrelenting until the case was resolved.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Rossi sent a tiny, guilt-laden prayer of thanks heavenward for being saved from Hotch’s almost-epiphany regarding his team’s attitude adjustment.

For his part, the Unit Chief dove into the case, donning blinders for everything except the whereabouts of eleven-year-old Timothy Burroughs, missing for six hours by the time his absence was noticed. The profilers reached Shreveport, Louisiana and hit the ground running.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Seven hours later, the good news was that they had an idea of where the boy might be.

The bad news was that another one had gone missing. Hotch’s gut instinct said that the two youngsters were together, but the necessity of having to trace as much as they could of a second potential victim wore the sleep-deprived team thin. As they moved out into the midnight bayou, cursing the heat, humidity, insects and other native wildlife of the deadly sort, J.J.’s phone vibrated.

A quick glance told her it was Garcia with a note that ‘Mother Hen’ was getting egg-y again. And with her new penchant for statistics and mathematical mapping, ‘Mother Hen’ was feeling uncommonly urgent.

J.J. wasn’t in the mood. She might not be slogging through the swamp with the others, but standing by at the edge of it in the company of emergency support personnel still subjected her to all the discomforts summer marshland could offer. She ignored the message for hours until Garcia had resent it three times. Utilizing her liaison’s ability to bite down on her own feelings, offering up patient diplomacy instead, J.J. finally returned the call.

“Penelope, just tell Haley that we’re in the middle of a case. Hotch will be home as soon as possible, but right now we’re a little preoccupied trying to find two children.”

“But she’s got it all figured out! Who’d have thunk Miss Blue-Blood-Lunch-At-The-Country-Club was so…so… _Reid_ -ish when it comes to numbers and spreadsheets!” Garcia’s voice grew a little timid around the edges. “And I hate telling her ‘no,’ J.J… Isn’t there maybe, like, an ETA for getting the Rocket back to the launching pad?”

J.J.’s patience snapped as she heard something sloshing through the reeds a few yards away. Something big. Something of far more immediate consequence than Haley’s spreadsheet. “Look, I hate to be the toughie here, but call her! You can make me the bad guy if you want.” The liaison was beginning to resent what she considered an air of entitlement that seemed to be part and parcel of Haley’s makeup.

Familiarity did indeed breed contempt of a sort. What had been tearful gratitude for help when Operation Ovulation first began had morphed into something that was fueled by Haley’s frustration and determination. She was more demanding and less appreciative. J.J. heard shouts. Looking up, she could see flashlight beams wavering through the moss-laden trees and rustling reeds. There was no time to cater to Hotch’s wife.

“Listen to me, Garcia. You call her back and you tell her _I_ said if she wants to sway the odds in her favor, she can pick up her little go-bag and camp out in Hotch’s office. We’ll be back when we get there.” People were straggling out of the swamp, looking exhausted, but with smiles that made J.J.’s heart leap with hope.

“Sorry, Penelope, I’ve gotta go. Just…tell Haley to get off her duff and take some action instead of waiting for us to hand Hotch to her on a silver platter!”

“But…” Garcia blinked at the phone. Connection closed. 


	37. Plovers...Almost

It was a muddy, mosquito-bitten, exhausted crew that emerged from the bayou. But even in the dim illumination of the gritty, Louisiana dawn, grins flashed triumphant.

J.J. moved forward, looking for five familiar faces. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the BAU team coming out last with the unsub in custody. Local law enforcement had taken charge of the two boys, hustling them into ambulances, but from what the liaison could see, the boys were moving under their own power. A little wide-eyed and frightened, but… _Alive! Thank God, alive!_ Her smile matched those of the local officers as she went to meet her team. But it wavered when she saw Morgan’s face was bruised and Rossi had an arm around Hotch’s waist. Not really supporting, but ready to, should the need arise.

“What happened? Are you guys alright?”

“Y-e-a-h,” Prentiss drawled, letting a lopsided smile show through the grime streaked across her cheeks. “Ol’ Gunther here…” She nodded toward the unsub, being propelled forward by Morgan’s iron grip. “…seems he had an idea of startin’ his own swamp-version of Oliver Twist. You know? He’d be Fagin and reap the profits of a bunch of underage pickpockets!” Contempt laced every word as Emily shook her head in disbelief. “Only he forgot that Fagin was…hmmm…what’s that word? Oh, yeah… _SMART_.”

J.J. saw ‘Ol’ Gunther’ sneer, or at least that’s what she thought might be occurring somewhere within the bushy confines of the beard that straggled almost down to his crotch. “I coulda maked it work.” He leered at Prentiss. “Coulda used you, too, like I said…”

“Shut up!” Morgan gave his prisoner a shake hard enough for the man’s teeth to snap together. Hotch’s glare was particularly black, but he said nothing.

J.J. thought he might have, but she saw Rossi’s arm tighten around the Unit Chief’s waist, a silent restraint. She caught Reid’s solemn eyes. He gave his head a slight shake, murmuring as he passed by, “We’ll talk later. On the jet.”

Puzzled, the liaison decided to savor the positive aspects of the situation instead of delving into whatever ugliness was hovering over the group. Although she couldn’t think of anything much more horrendous than stealing and abusing children. “So, you got the boys back and they looked okay.” She fell in beside them as Morgan split off, delivering ‘Ol’ Gunther’ to a waiting squad car.

Predictably, Rossi picked up on her effort to lighten things by angling in on their success. He adopted a smile in a show of solidarity. “You’re right, J.J. Can’t ask for a better outcome than that.” He gave Hotch’s waist a gentle squeeze. “All in all, this is a good day.”

Having deposited the unsub into the arms of the local authorities, Morgan caught up as they approached the SUV provided by Shreveport’s branch of the Bureau. He rubbed his jaw, fingering the bruises along the bone. Noticing, J.J. sighed. “Okay, guys, we’ve got basic first aid on board the jet and ice packs for Morgan’s face, but…” She glanced around at Hotch. “…what else do I need to get? Hotch? What happened to you?”

Rossi had removed his arm from the Unit Chief’s waist, letting his hand rest on the man’s back in a show of light support instead. “Nothing. I’m fine.” Hotch didn’t seem interested in elaborating.

“Nothing special needed, J.J.” Rossi gave Aaron’s shoulder a pat. “Ice and aspirin should be sufficient.”

J.J. nodded, falling back so she was in line with Reid and Prentiss, letting the other three move ahead a few steps. She kept her voice low. “What happened? How’d the guys get hurt?”

“Well…” Emily shrugged. “I think Hotch had kind of a flashback to the last case with kids, you know? Those little girls.”

“Oh, God.”

“He heard crying.” Reid took up the thread of the tale. “He was gonna throw himself at the door of the hut where the unsub was holding the boys. But Morgan caught him this time.”

“Yeah, it would’ve all gone down smooth, if that moron Gunther had kept his mouth shut.” Prentiss sighed. “But after we got the boys out, he laughed and said that boys weren’t as much fun as girls anyway, so no great loss.” She grimaced. “I think he said it because I was there. Kind of a last gasp of rebellion before being taken in, b-u-t…”

“But it touched a nerve in Hotch.” Reid lowered his voice even more, intent on keeping the conversation private. “Then he started going into detail about what he’d do if he had two little girls to play with. It was…graphic. Hotch went for him. Morgan kind of got in the way. They, uh, got a little tangled up.”

J.J. frowned, her words taking on a note of disbelief. “You mean those bruises on Morgan’s face? They’re from…from _Hotch_?”

“He didn’t mean to.” Prentiss tried to defend her boss.

 “I don’t think he did all of them, either,” Reid continued. “Morgan hustled Hotch outside and I think they fell in all the muck and ooze that was Gunther’s front yard. There was all kinds of junk laying around. I heard shouting, but couldn’t really make out what they were saying. Maybe they struggled. I’m guessing Morgan got hurt in a fall more than from anything Hotch did.”

“Jeez, I hope so.” J.J. frowned, watching the slow progress of their leader. “So what exactly did Hotch hurt?”

“His hip, I think.”

J.J. felt a wave of sympathy. No bruised hip would hurt Hotch as much as the realization that he’d been responsible for a teammate’s injury.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia fortified herself with a cookie and a peppermint latte before picking up the phone to relay J.J.’s message to Haley.

Problem was, Penelope wasn’t sure how serious the liaison had been about Hotch’s wife packing a go-bag and taking up residence in her husband’s office. On the one hand, Garcia thought J.J. might have been speaking from a place of impatient frustration; an unusual state for a woman who was the soul of discretion and quiet calm on the job. But she’d sounded distracted and had clearly been upset about the possible fate of the children they were trying to find. It was understandable that J.J.’s priorities in the field would be radically different than when she was trying to console a prospective mother over fries and soft drinks in the mall. So the suggestion and the edge evident in J.J.’s voice may have been nothing more than a venting mechanism.

But then…when Garcia settled back in the quiet of her lair, latte and cookie in hand…and considered the practical aspects of their mission, she thought shaving a few hours off of the time it would take Hotch to get home might be worth the effort.

_He’ll stay here and slog through the paperwork for sure. That might take hours all on its own. Then there’s the drive home. Then he’ll probably need some time to refuel with a meal and maybe a shower before he can launch the Hotch-missile…_

Garcia rocked back in her chair, calculating. _Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to cut through all that delay. Especially if Mrs. Rocket is doing the math now, setting her egg-timer according to some weird spreadsheet._

Having convinced herself, the tech analyst had no trouble convincing Haley.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was a little preoccupied on the flight home. He still wanted to discuss his suspicions with Rossi concerning the team’s knowledge of his personal life. He was also hyper-aware of anyone being overly kind or solicitous toward him.

But it was hard to be critical of attention when he knew he was limping and when Morgan’s face was sporting some impressive bruising. No one had spoken about what had transpired in the bayou. In fact, they seemed uncomfortable. Hotch could feel the wary glances being divided between him and Derek. Once they were airborne, J.J. made the rounds with ice packs.

Morgan pressed one against his jaw. Hotch held his on the jutting point of his left hipbone.

After a few minutes, Derek gathered up his ipod and ice, and surprised the rest of the team by moving to take a seat next to Hotch. The two men’s eyes connected. Morgan’s smile came first. It took Hotch a little longer.

In truth, the resurgence in his memory of the case involving little Angie Sachs was hurting. But he couldn’t help returning Morgan’s growing grin when the agent shook his head and put their swamp adventure into one sentence. “Man, that was close, Hotch.”

The Unit Chief quirked one brow. “Got that right.”

Morgan leaned back, closing his eyes, letting the ice numb his soreness. “Didn’t know that dude had any pets.”

Hotch grunted.

The rest of the team had been scrutinizing the exchange, certain that the two alphas, having come to blows, would now have to come to terms with it. But nothing the men were saying fed into that scenario. When it looked as though nothing more would be spoken, Rossi frowned, moving closer to the pair.

“You boys need to discuss that little altercation you had? Clear the air before we get home?”

Two sets of dark eyes regarded him with a complete lack of comprehension. Morgan spoke first. “Wha’d’you mean? What altercation?”

Looks passed among the others. Reid elaborated. “When you guys went outside. We heard shouting.”

Prentiss nodded. “And you came back a little banged up. Both of you.”

Morgan and Hotch stared at each other. “Boss-man, they think _you_ did this.” Derek lifted his chin, the better to display the swelling. “They think we were fighting out there.” His grin widened until he winced.

Hotch gave a gusty sigh, deciding he’d best quell any rumors before they gained momentum, spreading through the Bureau, being savored and nurtured until eventually they became the stuff of workplace legend. “Morgan took me out. It was kind of slippery and I wrenched my hip when I slipped in the mud, but the worst thing…”

Morgan stepped in. “The worst thing was the crocodile sleeping under the porch. Hotch woke it up when he fell. Nearly broke my jaw when its tail hit me upside my head. Had a hell of a time dragging Boss-man back up onto the landing.”

“Might’ve been worse if we hadn’t seen that big bag of Purina dog chow,” Hotch rumbled.

Morgan shook his head. “Didn’t know crocodiles ate that kind of stuff.”

“Well…he did. ‘Stead of me.”

“Alligator.” Reid’s soft correction went unheard as the two agents settled themselves and their ice packs more comfortably. “Louisiana has alligators, not crocodiles…”


	38. A Peck in Time

Hotch hadn’t forgotten his interrupted conversation with Rossi concerning the team’s knowledge of his private life. But sitting on the jet with the others in close proximity, he thought it best if he shelved any further discussion until it could be continued in private.

Still, the subject didn’t recede very far from his thoughts. Especially when the lion’s share of concern was directed his way even as he sat beside a man whose injuries were far more apparent than his own. Morgan’s bruises defied the ice pack J.J. had provided. Every time Hotch glanced toward him, they seemed to have achieved a darker shade of purple. Yet it was the Unit Chief’s shoulder that people patted in passing. It was Hotch’s hip that drew eyes despite being concealed beneath clothing and his own cold compress.

Even more telling was Rossi’s avoidance. Taking a seat several rows away, the older man pulled out a paperback book…something about theories concerning the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa, from what Hotch could see…and kept his eyes focused on its pages, although Hotch noticed he turned very few of them. All these little signs stoked the fires of Aaron’s suspicions, but they didn’t actually ignite until Morgan turned his swelled jaw toward Hotch and glanced at his lap.

“So how bad is it, Boss-man? Bum hip gonna cramp your style?”

Hotch inspected the man sitting beside him. “Morgan, I guarantee you that my hip is in better shape than your face.”

Derek nodded, settling back into his seat as though able to relax now that he’d been reassured of his leader’s fitness. His rest didn’t last long. He could feel the intense, wolf-eyed scrutiny piercing into him. After a few minutes of unrelenting observance, Morgan sighed. Eyes still closed, he unwittingly asked the same question Rossi had some time ago under similar circumstances. “What?”

From his seat, Rossi looked up…possibly remembering having to buy Hotch off with ice cream when subjected to the full force of his glare. Only this time Hotch didn’t respond. The Stare. Just. Kept. On. After a few more minutes, Morgan surrendered. Pulling himself up from his slouched position, he met Hotch’s eyes.

“What!?”

The Unit Chief leaned in, keeping his voice low. Even Rossi, who was making no secret of watching from his seat near the end of the cabin, couldn’t tell what was being said. He observed that Hotch held one hand close to his mouth, guarding against any of his team who might have a talent for lip-reading. Hotch opted for a forceful, direct approach.

“Morgan, why are you guys looking out for me?” Hotch couldn’t tell if the blank look on Derek’s face was from incomprehension or if it indicated an Oh-crap!-he-knows moment.

“That’s our job, Hotch. We look out for each other.” _Oh, crap! He knows!_

Inches away, Hotch’s eyes flicked back and forth, assessing Morgan’s for several disconcerting heartbeats. His chest rose and fell in a small, frustrated sigh. He decided to change his strategy, using a gentler method. “Look, Morgan…I know something’s going on. Something’s _changed_ among you guys.” Hotch glanced up, noting Rossi’s open appraisal, wondering if the senior agent was going to attempt to sidetrack him with diversionary tactics.

“Hotch, in case you missed the memo…you’ve had kind of a rough few months.” Morgan tried to look bland and unassuming. “You’ve been hurt and sick and roughed up more than usual. And seems like you’re still nursing some wounds inside. You know…from that case with the girls? The one you…ya know…held at the end?”

Hotch’s eye contact didn’t waver, but Morgan could see them darken, softening at mention of the Angie Sachs case. He was sorry he’d brought it up. He’d wanted to evade Hotch’s questioning, but he could see he’d evoked memories still raw and painful. _Damn. Should’ve known from how he broke when that Gunther character mentioned little girls. Damn, damn, damn._

From the other end of the cabin Rossi saw the shift in Hotch’s body language. Caving shoulders, a slight recoil. He abandoned the camouflage provided by his paperback, sensing Morgan might need help. And Aaron might need rescuing, too. Derek was glad when Rossi took a seat across from him.

“I thought you boys said you didn’t have anything that needed airing.” The oldest agent’s regard was mostly for Hotch. “From where I was sitting, looks as though you could use a referee.”

“No. We’re fine.” Hotch’s determination to ferret out the subtext he felt running through his team lost momentum at mention of his conduct in the bayou. And at mention of Angie. As the others watched him, he ran behavioral equations in his mind, unraveling a hurtful maze.

_Morgan looks like he’s been in a fight because of me. **And** he saved me from some serious damage out there. **And** he had to step in when I demonstrated an unforgivable lapse in professionalism. **And** he’s right; I haven’t let go of little Angie and I know a big part of that is because of where Haley and I are in our lives._

Hotch slowly raised his head to see Rossi and Morgan watching him. _I owe Morgan an explanation, but then I’d have to tell him about trying to be a father. **And** he has a habit of letting his guard down around Garcia. And if **she** finds out, the whole Bureau’ll know. She won’t be able to contain herself._

Thoughts of Penelope’s reaction to the news, fueled by her unbridled, joyful, big heart brought out the beginnings of a small smile, but images of the terrified faces of the boys they’d just retrieved, and the ghost of Angie’s soft, innocent, last breath made Hotch’s eyes fill.

He was torn. He looked it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J. had taken a seat alone so she could text Garcia without interruption.

Immersed in her task, she didn’t notice the quiet discussion playing out between the three men. When Penelope replied that there was nothing to worry about… the ‘Mother Hen’ issue was under control…J.J. closed the connection, and her eyes, in relief. She leaned back in her seat, pleased that she wouldn’t have to deal with Haley or any Southern belle drama for the moment.

There’d been enough tension and anxiety for one day.

But something in the general atmosphere disturbed her attempt to relax. With a weary sigh, she opened her eyes, seeking the source. And immediately sat up, her spine stiffening.

From where she was, it looked as though Rossi and Morgan were leaning in toward Hotch, possibly driving home some point. But what arrested her attention, and then outraged her, and then propelled her out of her seat and down the aisle, was Hotch’s face. It held a rare expression. Mournful eyes filled with tragedy. A helplessness about it, as though he had no defenses, nothing left with which to protect himself. It reminded J.J. of a puppy whose fate was being decided by someone else; who’d lost all hope of any happiness.

She didn’t care if she was butting in where she wasn’t wanted. _Enough already!_ Her untried maternal instincts flared, pushing diplomacy aside with a rough shove. She descended on Rossi and Morgan with an almost audible hiss of anger.

“What did you do to him?” She moved behind Hotch’s seat, placing a hand on each of his shoulders; protecting him from whatever or whoever was responsible for the sorrow etched across his features.  Her voice reminded Rossi of his parochial school days; strict Sister Agnes and her disciplinary use of a ruler.

All three men gave J.J. an uncomprehending look. Unfortunately, that only served to imbue Hotch with an even more vulnerable aspect. Morgan blinked. “What…?”

Rossi tried to add, “We didn’t…”

Neither had anything J.J. wanted to hear. “Look at him! Leave him alone. He’s had enough.”

When Hotch tried to speak up, she clutched his shoulders with a tighter grip. “Shhhhh…Hotch, it’s okay. They were just leaving.” The icicle look she gave Morgan and Rossi spurred them out of their seats. They found others a safe distance away. In truth, both men were glad for the excuse to abandon the conversation. Both thought they’d dodged a bullet when it came to being subjected to Hotch’s profiling talents, in case he pursued the subject of the team’s shift in attitude toward him.

But both were also a little aggrieved that J.J. would think either could be intentionally cruel to Aaron.

Rossi shook his head as he watched the liaison turn concerned attention on their boss. _That man produces more pain inside himself than anything we could inflict on him. He’s his own worst critic. And he still feels that little girl in his arms. I’m sure of it._

 


	39. Bird Dance

Having rescued Hotch, J.J. took the seat so recently vacated by Morgan.

“Are you okay?” She leaned around, the better to detect and assess whatever emotional bomb the others had detonated inside their leader. Hotch nodded, unsure of what had just happened, of what had set the normally placid liaison off.

“J.J., they didn’t do anything wrong. They were just…”

“They were making you look like someone kicked you when you were already down, Hotch.” Her tone said she would brook no arguments. “I saw it.” She settled in, knowing her presence would act as a deterrent should Morgan or Rossi consider coming back to continue whatever she’d interrupted. Hotch sent the two men an apologetic look, receiving a shrug and some raised eyebrows in return.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” J.J.’s soft voice created a safe space for discussions; a private place where nothing bad or judgmental could intrude.

It was tempting, but, if Hotch was honest with himself, he had to admit that despite his curiosity about the team’s treatment of him, he didn’t want any more upset. He gave the liaison a sidelong look. She’d been right about one thing: he’d had enough. At least for a while. At least until the next case reared its head, forcing him to give it a little more of what he saw as his damaged, dwindling resources. His sigh was deep and telling.

J.J., so experienced in emotional subtext, heard Hotch’s weariness. It went deeper than just the day’s activities. It went to that place inside that Morgan and Rossi had touched; a place that hurt, and that she suspected was an accumulation of a career’s worth of pain. _And there’s likely no shortage of personal pain either._

“That’s alright,” she soothed. “You don’t have to say anything.” With the ease of long acquaintance, she slipped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a brief, companionable squeeze before relinquishing her hold. _Haley should be doing this, not me._

The thought of Hotch’s wife was momentary, but opened the way for in-depth reflection on the Hotchners’ relationship; something J.J. wouldn’t have considered her business if Haley hadn’t drawn her into their personal lives in such an intimate, demanding way.

_He shouldn’t be as worn out as he seems. That’s what a spouse is supposed to do: pick you up and share the burden…not create new ones. Marriage is a support system, not an obstacle course. He shouldn’t be so alone in carrying whatever’s hurting him._

She recalled the first time Haley had aired her grievances concerning Hotch’s refusal to share anything stemming from his work. _Fine. So he keeps her out. She could still comfort him without having to know the details, without having him **prove** to her that he **deserves** comfort._

The more she thought about it, the more disturbing J.J. found the model she was building of Hotch’s marriage. _But it’s just that: a model assembled from the scraps and pieces of a few hurried conversations._ She gave Hotch a considering look as her liaison qualities reasserted themselves. She decided more insight was needed before condemning one Hotchner for lack of communication, and one for lack of compassion. Even so, the faint echo of Garcia’s assurance that the ‘Mother Hen’ situation was under control wafted across J.J’s mind, trailing an inexplicable frisson of dismay in its wake.

“Hotch, I’m gonna get something to drink. You want anything?”

“No, thanks.” He sounded subdued. In truth, Hotch was running his profiling skills on himself, hoping to find why Angie Sachs affected him so deeply, wondering if it were more than his facing prospective parenthood.

J.J. ran a hand over one of his shoulders as she stood. “I’ll be right back.” The statement was delivered at a higher volume than was strictly necessary; a warning to anyone who might take advantage of her absence to broach any more upsetting subject matter with their Unit Chief.

Morgan and Rossi understood, watching J.J. make her way down the aisle after each received a stern look in passing.

But once in the galley section of the aircraft, she slipped into the restroom rather than the kitchen proper. Making sure the door was closed, she pulled out her phone, wanting to speak to Garcia rather than rely on the less accurately expressive method of texting.

“ ‘Sup, Sunshine?” Penelope sounded relaxed and happy. Her babies were safe and on their way home. And she prided herself on having handled the Haley situation effectively.

“Hi, Garcia.” Keeping her voice low, J.J. faced into the corner farthest from the door; a precaution against inadvertent eavesdropping. “Listen, when you said things were sorted out with ‘Mother Hen,’ what did you mean? Exactly?”

Smug satisfaction dripped from the reply. “I think we figured out a way to cut down on the time factor that Miss Haley’s been tracking so ardently, and let her be _ardent_ about taking _action_ instead.”

“Huh?”

“She’s going to lay in wait for Hotch. In his office. It’ll shave off hours between the time he lands and the time he launches.” A chuckling undercurrent in the tech analyst’s voice made it that much harder for J.J. to say what she considered necessary.

“Penelope, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“What? No! It’s perfect! Isn’t it? I mean… Why not?...I mean…”

J.J. thought Garcia might be ramping up to one of her babbling tirades. In the interest of time, and of not making the rest of the team think she had some ailment that was keeping her sequestered in the restroom, she overrode the chatter. “Penelope! Hotch isn’t in such a great place mentally right now, you know? It was another case with kids and…I dunno…something’s making him more broody than usual. I don’t think he’d appreciate being jumped in his office. I think maybe that’s his safe place from everything…and every _one_.”

After a beat of silence, a smaller, crestfallen voice replied. “But…but then I’d have to call Mrs. Rocket back and…and I got her all on board just a little while ago…and…and…what’ll I say?...and…uh…”

J.J.’s sigh was eloquent “It’s okay. I’m sorry, Pen, but maybe it’ll be a good idea some other time, okay? And you don’t have to call her. I’ll take care of it.”

“ ‘Kay.” A little of Garcia’s energy returned, but it was geared toward worry, not triumph. “Is Hotch gonna be alright? Anything I can do?”

“He’ll be fine. He just gets moody sometimes. And…when there are kids involved…you know?”

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

J.J. heard a light tap at the door and hushed her voice even more. “Thanks for everything, Garcia. Gotta go. See you soon.”

She ended the call just in time. Prentiss, in a very reserved tone from the other side of the door, asked if she was okay.

“Yeah. I just need some privacy for a few more minutes, Emily.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

As she brought up Haley’s number, J.J. heard Prentiss grow slightly louder as she informed her teammates… “She’s fine. Probably on the phone is all.”

Shaking her head, J.J. smiled. _Profilers. There is no such thing as privacy around them._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley was scanning the contents of her version of a go-bag for the third time.

Speaking to Penelope had been a little unsettling at first. Until she reminded herself that the colorful, outrageous quality of the woman’s suggestions were just for show. Like her wardrobe. She couldn’t possibly be serious about showing up at the BAU in nothing but a trench coat and stilettos. Besides, Haley didn’t even own a trench coat. She had a very proper, navy blue raincoat. And her tallest heels were a conservative two inches. And she would never wear them without hosiery.

Reenacting the erotic adventures of Dora and Ian in the confines of their house was one thing. Taking it on the road was another. Unthinkable.

However…thoughts of Aaron fresh from a case…maybe a little sweaty…maybe a little fierce… _I wonder if I’ve ever told him how much I love the scent of him **before** he showers?..._

Her reverie was interrupted by the chiming of her phone. Eyes still roving over her bag, she answered without checking caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s J.J.”

Haley’s head snapped up. “Is Aaron okay? He’s not…He didn’t get…”

“He’s fine. Not hurt. Not sick. Your husband is fine.”

“Oh, good…” Relieved, Haley expelled the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. She glanced at the clock in the living room. “You aren’t home yet, are you? Penelope said I had another hour.”

“Uh…yeah…about that.” The reluctance underlying J.J.’s words put Haley on alert. “I don’t think showing up at his office is a good idea, Haley. At least, not this time around.”

“Why not?” Hotch’s wife would never admit it, but the thought of a sweaty, slightly used Aaron was beginning to make her view this adventure with a lot more anticipation than she’d thought possible.

“Well…he’s…” J.J. hesitated, fishing for words that would convey Hotch’s emotional state without giving away too many details of the case. But she hadn’t reckoned on the impatience Haley felt with that appealing vision of Aaron in mind.

“What? What is it, J.J.? Tell me! If he’s not hurt or sick, give me one reason I shouldn’t be at his office!”

Haley’s tone jarred the liaison. _Fine. You want the unvarnished reason? Here it is…_ “I don’t think he’ll be in the mood for sex after a case like this.”

A few beats of silence ensued. J.J. waited, hoping she wouldn’t have to argue in case she forgot where she was in the heat of it and raised her voice, letting the entire team…including Hotch…know she was discussing his sex life with his wife.

But Haley’s thoughts took a quite different slant during the pause. _How would **she** know if he’s in the mood or not? _ A mental image of J.J….pretty, blonde J.J… set Mrs. Hotchner’s teeth on edge. _How would **she** know unless she’s asked him for it? Tried to initiate it!_ Haley was sure of her husband’s fidelity. He would never cheat on her. But from the day she’d first noticed him, she’d also been aware of the female attention that hovered around him like an anonymous cloud of pheromones. Women wanted him. Haley enjoyed that; was proud of it. But if one of those creatures tried to _do_ anything about it, to follow through on the impulse…

Deep inside Haley, the tigress whose feeding ground began and ended with Aaron… ** _ROARED_**!

Her voice was ice. “I’ll be there to meet _my_ husband.” A honeyed sweetness, sickening and Southern seeped in. “You don’t need to concern yourself about Aaron anymore. Thank you _so_ much for calling.”

J.J. looked at the disconnected phone cradled in her palm, unsure of what had just transpired. Unsure of what would be waiting for Hotch when he stepped off the jet.

 

xxxxxxx

 

While J.J. was in the restroom, Rossi studied Hotch where he sat.

His easy posture, slumped in his seat, belied his morose expression. He gazed out the window with eyes trained on some inward vision. Rossi cursed the cases that brought imperiled children into Hotch’s world at this particular juncture in his life.

_He doesn’t need to have his nose rubbed in the horrors that can happen. He loses perspective too easily. I told him he hasn’t learned balance yet. But he shouldn’t put his life on hold, because maybe he never **will** be able to find that even keel the rest of us take for granted._

Rossi sighed, recalling another thing that had disturbed him in one of his conversations with Hotch. _And he’ll never find that balance if he has to keep himself under lock and key all the time. He shouldn’t feel he can’t cry in front of his wife. She should be helping him work out the sadness of this job even if she doesn’t know the exact details that bring it on._

_And that’s something **she** needs to learn._

He watched J.J. emerge from the restroom, a slightly bemused expression on her face. Rossi stood, pushing on Morgan’s knee to let him past.

“ ‘Scuse me, Derek. Gotta go to the men’s room.”

Rossi had his phone out and was pulling up Haley’s number as J.J. resumed her seat beside Haley’s husband.


	40. Into the Henhouse

Anger and suspicion roiled about in Haley’s mind.

She had to clamp down on the unsavory images cavorting through it before she could begin to examine the situation with any kind of composure. But the exact nature of that situation eluded her. She knew she was capable of jealousy. In many ways her life had been driven by the need to make others envious. The flip side was that she herself, having subscribed to such motivation, was also likely to fall prey to it.

The thought of someone else touching Aaron, listening to his deep, rumbling voice, providing an ear for him to release the secrets and pressures he refused to share with his own wife…enraged her. But she knew, would stake her very life on the surety, that Aaron was a faithful, honorable, trustworthy man. He was perfect husband material in that regard. As soon as that reassuring thought passed through her mind, it trailed a disturbing corollary behind it.

Haley wasn’t at all sure she was as virtuous as her mate.

She had no desire to cheat on Aaron. He was far too beautiful in her eyes…and in the eyes of others…to risk losing in such a tawdry way. But the admission to herself that of the two of them, she’d be more likely to stray, dovetailed with her mother’s long-ago proclamation that Southern boys were raised to be gentlemen, while the girls of Dixie were groomed to be man-eating tigresses.

It made Haley distrust women in general. She judged them by the very yardstick that took her measure and found her wanting.

And there was that other female agent. Prentiss. Haley’d always been peripherally aware of her, but now her incensed brain whispered that Aaron and Emily made a handsome couple. Pale. Dark of eye and hair. And both carried the same tinge of sorrow, like a cloak. _A cloak under which two people could huddle, sharing similarities, discovering common ground…_

NO! Haley shook herself. Aaron was blameless. Of that she was sure. But he wasn’t under her control or protection once he entered the hunting ground of these other women. And a blameless, innocent man like him could be manipulated by unscrupulous females with hidden agendas.

She should know. Although, when describing herself, she substituted the less critical ‘determined’ for ‘unscrupulous.’

It was a relief when her phone chimed, breaking into an essentially destructive train of thought.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch felt more than saw J.J. resume her seat beside him.

He broke away from staring out the window, glancing at her as she settled in, giving him a smile filled with fondness for all they’d gone through together over the years; for all his little kindnesses she kept secret when he distributed them among teammates or victims or anyone else who might benefit. _He’s a good soul, but such a sad one. Wish he could dole out some of that kindness to himself._

“No tea?” Hotch raised his brows at her empty hands, recalling her excuse for leaving her seat in the first place.

“Oh. No. I changed my mind.”

“Hmmm.” He turned back to studying the vacant sky.

“Hotch?”

“Yeah?”

J.J. took a breath and the plunge. “Why are you so sad?” His head swung back around, eyes subjecting her to solemn regard. She saw no evasion or censure in their depths. Encouraged, J.J. continued. “We saved those boys today. You should feel good about that, but…What’s wrong?”

Hotch had been trying to figure that out himself. The sky, blue with distance, hadn’t yielded up any answers. J.J.’s eyes, blue with honest, artless concern…might.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” She kept her voice low, confidential. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say. But you told me once that it was okay to freak out a little when a case gets to you; when you identify, see yourself in it too much.” She leaned closer. “Is that what’s happening?”

When Hotch broke eye contact, bowing his head so mere inches separated them, J.J. knew he’d decided to let her in. Maybe not far. And maybe he needed to hide a little bit by not looking at her directly when he spoke, but it was a start.

“Maybe.” He shifted, checking on the others, verifying his and J.J.’s privacy.  Rossi was nowhere in sight. Probably in the restroom. Satisfied, he bent even closer to the liaison. “I keep thinking about that other case.” He paused. “Angie. The two little Sachs girls. But mostly Angie.”

“H-o-t-ch.” Her voice caressed his name in lieu of the physical comfort she knew might make him draw back. Opening himself verbally was hard. Adding a tactile element might be too much, too soon. “Of course you can’t forget her. You held her.”

Hotch couldn’t say how grateful he was that J.J. always knew the right words. Not just to encourage, but to avoid hurt. She didn’t say ‘She died in your arms.’ That might have stabbed at his core. And now, finally raising his eyes and looking at her, he could tell she knew that. It made it easier to continue.

“She was only three, J.J.. What’s the point of being born if your life is that short?”

Her gentle smile threw him a little; this wasn’t cheerful subject matter. “The point is sunny days with your family, and the first time you pet a kitten, and the first time you see the seasons change and realize how each one brings some special joy. It’s having a favorite color and a favorite food. It’s making your first friend and finding out you both like to play the same games. It’s all those discoveries; all those firsts.” She looked past him to the open, infinite sky. “You can’t tell me that’s not worth being born, Hotch.”

“But…the end. The way it ended.”

Her smile faded. “Even so. It’s worth it. And at the last, there were big, strong arms to hold her.” Her eyes were full when they met his. “It’s worth it, Hotch. I just _know_.”

He felt an answering echo of tears gathering behind his lids. He nodded. “Thank you, J.J.”

She decided to take a chance. “You’re going to make a wonderful father someday, Hotch.”

He felt a tear spill over. Dashing it away with the back of one hand, he saw Rossi emerge from the restroom, gaze immediately fixing on the Unit Chief’s damp eyes.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hello, Haley. How’re you doing?”

“Dave! I…” She felt her throat tighten with emotion; the fallout, the residual effect of what she knew was unworthy suspicion and anger. Unworthy as far as Aaron was concerned. But… “Dave, how well do you know J.J.?”

She could hear reservation creep into Rossi’s normally complacent voice. “Extremely well.”

He heard an intake of breath, the kind that signaled someone about to say things they weren’t sure they should. Haley was girding herself.

“Are she and Aaron…you know… _close_?”

The ensuing pause gave Haley ample time to close her eyes and send up a fervent wish that she’d kept her doubts to herself. _But that wouldn’t have got me anywhere. At least it’s out there…instead of sitting inside me, eating me up._

“Haley. I’m going to say this once, so you better listen very carefully and understand that after I’ve said it, the matter is closed. Forever.”

Another pause, but more strategic, intended to give emphasis to what followed. “Jennifer Jareau is a professional who brings with her a unique skill set and is extraordinarily adept at using it. The bond she shares with your husband is the same bond that exists between each and every member of this team. If _anyone_ has led you to believe otherwise, I view their veracity and intelligence with _extreme_ prejudice. And disgust.”

For a moment all Haley heard was the reassurance she craved. But then the thinly veiled, critical insult seeped into her. Dave knew her doubts were self-inflicted. By ‘anyone,’ he meant her. Swallowing both her relief and her chagrin, she launched into an explanation, trying to validate asking such a thing.

“Dave, I’m sorry, but I had to know. He’s gone so much. And in the company of, well, _pretty_ women. And I bet he tells them all the things he keeps from me. He opens up to them.” Her voice verged on a sob. “They share more with him than I do!”

Rossi recognized the opening he’d hoped for. “Sharing is a learned skill, Haley. There are different ways to invoke it, and different ways to augment it. I don’t know where your doubts come from, but I do know they’re unwarranted. What I’d like to know from _you_ is what kind of environment you’re creating that will let Aaron know it’s okay to share on an even deeper level when he’s with you.”

He thought he could see misinterpretation already welling up in Haley. “And by that I do _not_ mean sex. I mean his emotions. The feelings that attack a decent man when he’s required to see humanity at its lowest ebb. The feelings that tear at him and that he keeps inside because he’s afraid that showing them will taint the person who’s supposed to cleanse him of all that pain, so he can go out and confront it again and again and again. Do you help him with that, Haley? Ever?”

“I’m _always_ here! I _always_ ask him about his work, but he doesn’t tell me anything unless I drag it out of him! What am I supposed to do, Dave? Nag him and make him miserable, and then send him off to a team that includes women who don’t have to do that? That’s not fair!”

Rossi reminded himself that the restroom door on the jet wasn’t soundproofed. He lowered his voice when he would have preferred to raise it. “Haley, you don’t get it. He shares the _words_ with those of us authorized to hear them. _You_ have the opportunity to share his _heart_. Now, you tell me what Aaron’s heart is made of…words?...or feelings?” He let a small space of silence fall during which the only audible response from Haley was breathing.

“How much do you know about Aaron’s background, Haley? I know you two grew up in the same town and went to the same schools, but how much do you know about the Hotchner family?”

Her voice was subdued. “Not much. He doesn’t really talk about that either. Never has. He’s so closed off!” The last was delivered in a tone that set Rossi’s teeth on edge.

_I bet if it’s difficult, she doesn’t expend more than a token effort to get that man to open up. She’s had years of marriage to work on him and they’re still at an impasse. I bet I know more than she does, and that’s a function of persistence. She doesn’t **work** for it. She just **waits** for it._

“Haley, he’s closed off because that’s how he was raised. It wasn’t safe to show weakness or emotion at home or anywhere in that small town where his father had a finger in every pie. Aaron’s still hiding his feelings so no one will stomp on them. Or him.” He gave her a moment to consider.

“You don’t need to know the words, Haley. But you _have_ to give him a safe place to express what’s behind those words. He needs that. He’s crippled without it.”

More silence. And a little air turbulence that reminded Rossi they were nearing their destination. It was time to end the conversation, even though there was more to say. _There’ll **always** be more to say_. He sighed.

“Haley, do you understand?”

He thought he detected sadness in her response. He hoped it was the result of sympathy for Aaron.

“Dave, can I come get him? When you land?”

Rossi smiled with relief. This might be a turning point for the couple. “Sure. If you can pry him away from his desk, take him home. And give him a safe place to heal from this job, Haley. He loves you. Help him.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi closed his phone with high hopes for the Hotchners. If he could nudge them over the barricade their respective backgrounds had erected, they just might make this marriage go the distance.

 _He_ never had, despite trying three times. It would be nice to know that a man could work for the Bureau and still succeed in his family life.

 _And I hope Haley realizes that sharing Aaron’s emotions is something only she can do to the depth necessary to get him to really open up._ He shook his head. _Imagine thinking J.J. or Prentiss could take that power away from her._

He exited the restroom and looked up to see J.J. and Hotch head to head. And it looked as though both might be crying.

_Uh-oh…_

 


	41. Pushing Chicks From the Nest

Rossi approached J.J. and Hotch with slow deliberation, using the short distance from the restroom to their seats to glean what he could from their expressions. He was aware his conversation with Haley had left an unpleasant taint, making him scrutinize the exchange between them when he knew better than to think scrutiny was warranted.

He saw nothing but innocence and friendship. Also, that whatever they’d been discussing had opened Hotch up enough to share a few tears. Standing beside them, Rossi smiled down at the pair even as he gave J.J.’s shoulder a reprimanding tap.

“And you tore into me and Morgan for making Hotch look sad. At least we didn’t make him cry.”

The liaison gave her head a rueful shake. “This is different, Rossi. It looked like you guys were _inflicting_ him with something painful. _This_ …” She tilted her chin toward her boss. “This is letting pain _out_.”

“Ahhhh. I see. All the difference in the world.”

“Yes, there is,” she replied with a prim, little sniff.

“Well, if I promise not to _inflict_ anything on him, would you mind letting me have a few words in private with our Unit Chief?”

J.J. took a long, discerning look at the man sitting beside her, a slow smile appearing. “Hotch, if he starts to bother you, I’ll be sitting right over there.” She pointed toward the end of the cabin where Prentiss and Reid were. “Give the word and I’ll smack him around a little, if you want.” Her schoolyard-playground-bully offer lightened the atmosphere, making both men return her smile.

“Thanks, J.J.” Hotch looked down at his hands. “For everything.”

“Any time.” She stood, giving her seat to Rossi. “And I meant what I said, Hotch. You’re going to be a terrific Dad someday.”

Rossi’s brows rose, wondering just how much the liaison had revealed of the team’s knowledge concerning their leader’s foray into fatherhood. J.J. gave him a glance that revealed nothing. Her words were for Hotch.

“Remember…if he tries to steal your lunch money, I’m right…over…there.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley wasn’t dumb. Self-centered, perhaps. Determined, assuredly. But never dumb.

She stared at her go-bag, toying with the makeup kit she’d stowed in it for necessary touchups after achieving her goal; after pouncing on Aaron. The conversation with Rossi was running through her mind. Her initial reaction to anyone who challenged her was to fight back; the prime directive being to emerge victorious. And of _course_ Dave was on Aaron’s side. They all were! They were _his_ team. It only stood to reason.

But…

Warring voices held a debate in Haley’s head.

_I never should have involved those women in this. Never should have brought them into having a hand in helping us start a family. It blurred the lines. Now they’re inside part of my world, but I can’t enter theirs. All I did was open the way for that half of Aaron’s life to take over a bigger slice of the whole pie. They could edge me out, if they wanted to._

But then…

_They make him feel safe. Aaron lets them into the places I can’t reach. But Dave’s right about some things, even if I don’t want to admit it. Well…not out loud anyway. I have to find a different way to get him to let me in._

But then…

Haley thought about all the time and effort she’d expended in creating enticing traps for her husband. The oysters. The strawberries. The filmy lingerie. The tiny touches that were meant to invite him in, to make him enjoy being caught.

A distant corner of her mind cried out that that wasn’t what Dave had been trying to tell her. She set traps with bait and lures. Aaron didn’t need to be caught. He needed to be sheltered.

And that’s where Haley’s brain ran up against a brick wall. As her thoughts darted about, ricocheting and bouncing back, she realized she didn’t have a clue how to build a shelter for anyone or anything. She could protect and control to a degree that she’d assumed rendered the need for shelter moot. But an honest, little spark in her told her it wasn’t the same thing.

For the first time since she’d decided to become Mrs. Aaron Hotchner, Haley felt the fine edge of panic stabbing at her. She was missing something essential, and she didn’t know how to go about getting it.

It never occurred to her that the quality of companionship to which Rossi referred wasn’t something you ‘get.’ It was something you grew.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi settled into the seat still warm from J.J.’s comforting presence. Looking thoughtful, he rubbed his beard with one hand, subjecting Hotch to a sidelong inspection. Hotch returned his look with open curiosity.

“What?”

Rossi gave a small head shake. “I’m thinking.”

“About…what?”

The older agent sighed. “I’m a meddlesome, old man, Aaron.”

“You’re not that old.”

One side of Rossi’s lips quirked upward, taking note that Hotch hadn’t refuted ‘meddlesome.’ But gravity reasserted itself. He turned in his seat, closing in a little and creating a more private feel to the conversation.

“Aaron, in your experience, what would you say is the single most frustrating characteristic of women?”

Hotch blinked, taken off guard. His brows drew together. “Why are you asking _me_ about women? Way I hear it, you’ve got all of us, even Morgan, beat in the headcount on that score.”

Rossi did his unconvincing best to look innocent, slouching in his seat and shrugging. “I’ve been to the altar three times. Maybe I’d like to hear a fresh perspective on the matter.” Clasping his hands over his stomach, he took a deep breath, looking like the most misunderstood man in the world. “Maybe the next relationship I have would stand a better chance if my best, _married_ friend opened up a little, shared a little.”

Hotch lifted his chin, regarding Rossi through half-lowered lids. He knew there was more to this conversational opening, but he couldn’t tell what. Not without more evidence. So…

 “If I _had_ to pick one thing that gives me trouble…” The question caught him. But after a momentary hesitation, he found he didn’t have to give it that much thought to come up with an answer. “They think you should know things that you can’t.” A grimace of frustration passed across his features. “You just _can’t_. Not unless you could read minds.”

Rossi frowned, leaning closer. “What do you mean?”

Hotch reared back, giving his friend a skeptical look. “Oh, c’mon, Dave. Are you telling me in all your vast experience a woman never got mad at you and, when you asked her why, she _didn’t_ say ‘You _know_ why!’? Or if you did something she didn’t like, and apologized, saying you didn’t know it would upset her, she _didn’t_ come back at you with ‘But you _should_ know! If you love me, you _should_ know!’? Are you telling me that’s never happened to you, Dave?”

Rossi had a hard time keeping his grin under control, but the stakes here were high. He clamped down on his mirth. Although it _was_ amusing to see grim, fearsome Aaron Hotchner suffering from the same malady that afflicted all men who had ever loved a woman: the inability to mesh thoughts as much as the female of the species expected. Rossi mused that to womankind, it was a sign of compatibility…veritable proof that a couple belonged together, were soul-mates. The only problem being, men considered it humanly impossible to know what a creature so beguiling, so quixotic, so inexplicable, would _do_ at any given moment…let alone what she was _thinking_.

He finally smiled. _So we watch them and cower just a little and hope they’ll love us back anyway. Even as inept and flawed as they consider us._

He reached over and patted Hotch’s knee. “I know what you mean, Aaron.” His sigh was deep, spawned by more than his share of failed relationships. “Indeed I do.”

Both men gazed out the window for a few silent moments. Eventually, Rossi resumed the discussion. “Ever consider that they might have a point? Women? Expecting us to know what they’re thinking?”

Hotch shook his head, still staring out the window.

“Hmmmm.” Dave waited a few more minutes. “Do you think it’s fair that Haley gets jealous of your job, Aaron?”

“What? No.” Hotch looked back into the eyes regarding him so closely. “She should know she doesn’t have anything to worry about.”

“She should _know_? Like…read your mind?” The frozen stare of realization Hotch gave him, told Rossi he’d made his point. He heard the jet’s landing gear bump down, deploying in readiness for runway contact. Rossi buckled his seatbelt, giving Hotch a last, almost-smug glance.

“Take some of what you’ve learned during this flight home with you tonight, Aaron. Take a cue from how J.J. differentiated between being hurt and letting sadness out. If you can’t let joy in, how about letting a little more of that sadness out? Cry in front of your wife. And if she asks you why, don’t think she should automatically know.”

Rossi leaned back in his seat, hoping he had pushed the Hotchners a little closer to understanding each other. “Buckle up, Aaron. We’re home.”

 


	42. Too Many Chicks

Haley shoved her go-bag to the back of the closet before leaving to pick up her husband at the BAU.

Not because she’d had an epiphany.

Not because she empathized with Aaron and thought he might be tired and worn and feeling less than romantic.

But because during her conversation with Dave, he’d made it a point to take sex off the table when asking her about her methods of bringing Aaron closer; making him feel safe and treasured.

In truth, Haley was at a loss to solve the puzzle she felt Rossi had set before her. Part of her was relieved to shelve the idea of carnal pursuits on the premises of the BAU. Although, secretly, part of her still thrilled to the vision of Aaron, sweaty and used and under her control at his workplace. But most of her just wanted to remove him from the presence of all those people who could claim knowledge of, and access to, the man she considered her exclusive property.

Especially J.J. Jareau and Emily Prentiss.

But not Penelope Garcia. When Haley pictured the tech analyst, leaning toward her over the wrought iron table of the mall’s food court during one of their meetings, eyelids awash in glittery shadow, hair festooned with ornaments that could do double duty on a Christmas tree…when Haley pictured Garcia, she didn’t feel threatened at all. As she backed her car out of the driveway, she analyzed the differences between Penelope and the others that made her discount the woman as competition.

She was loud, both in manner and appearance. Aaron was just the opposite. Quiet. Still. Conservative. Reined in. Haley liked that; saw it as an indication of refinement and good breeding.

Penelope was overt. She made no secret of her DVD collection for one thing. Such openness verged on being unacceptable, but what _really_ pushed it over the edge was her unconcealed relish of putting herself out where everyone could see. No matter if Haley’s own sexual horizons had expanded, thanks to Penelope, she knew the kind of woman Aaron would choose wouldn’t exhibit such…such…unseemly _delight_ in publicly displaying her appetites.

No, there was nothing to fear from Penelope Garcia.

As she drove toward the FBI’s flagship headquarters, Haley found that comforting. Penelope was like an island where she could trust her husband to be safe. A different kind of security from that Dave had been referencing, but a good and worthy thing nonetheless.

It made her feel that not _all_ of the BAU were in competition with her.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The jet had landed.

Subdued and weary, the team was being shuttled back to the BAU. J.J. sent her customary text to Garcia, apprising her of their safe landing and imminent arrival.

Back in her lair, the tech analyst smiled as she went into action, keeping up a steady stream of happy chatter to herself as she grabbed a loaf of homemade banana bread, wrapping it in purple cellophane, decking it with ribbons in dark green and gold curls. Garcia favored the colors of Mardi Gras when packaging gifts for those of the male persuasion. She fluffed the corkscrew ribbons with her fuchsia nails.

“Now. There we go. A-l-l-l-l pretty and perfect.” She lifted the offering produced in her kitchen, talking to it, explaining its hopeful fate. “ _You_ are going to wait for Mon Capitan on his desk. Because we _know_ he won’t go home. We _know_ he’ll be here for hours writing up the case while it’s fresh in his poor, hungry, tired brain. And we _know_ that J.J. defused the Lady Rocket, so she won’t be coming, so…”

She minced down the long corridors of the after-hours complex, uncaring of the few late workers who saw the woman holding an in-depth conversation with a loaf of bread.

“So…even if My Liege _doesn’t_ eat much, he _might_ just get the munchies and that’s when you’ll do your thing…be all delicious and scrumptious and…Ahhhh…here we are…”

Usually Garcia managed to deposit her offerings and evade Hotch, leaving behind a few grains of tell-tale glitter, disappearing through the door opposite the one through which he entered the bullpen, giving the Unit Chief the briefest of glimpses of her retreat. He knew the origin of the culinary gifts. They were part of the puzzle; part of the altered team behavior that he’d been noticing lately. But this time Garcia miscalculated. She’d spent too much time curling ribbons. She deposited the cheerful, little loaf on Hotch’s desk just as he entered his office, the team straggling behind him to their individual work stations.

“Garcia?”

She spun with enough force to dislodge one sequined barrette. It flew to the side, landing with a clatter against the bookcase lining the rear wall. Be-ringed fingers covering her lips, the tech analyst gasped, eyes wide.

“Sir! You’re not supposed…I’m not…Sir! You’re…you’re back!”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had been more downcast than usual as they’d landed.

He’d been mulling over the conversations he’d had inflight with J.J. and Rossi; worrying at them like a melancholy dog with a not-too-enticing bone. Being Hotch, he leaned toward reading his teammates’ concern as evidence that he was lacking, missing some vital element they felt the need to address. On top of that, he was tired and leaden and immeasurably sad about the dangers that befall children, even though _this_ case had turned out well.

Little Angie was still whispering at the edges of his consciousness. As were all the young ones, the babies, the innocents, whom he’d seen suffer or die during the years of his career. All the tiny ghosts were circling Hotch, hemming him in, whispering a forlorn chorus that left his heart sore and aching to the extent that he thought he might be able to follow through on Rossi’s directive to cry before his wife when he got home. In fact, Hotch thought it might be unavoidable. Unless he pulled over somewhere and let himself weep before reaching his own driveway; a tactic he’d never admit to anyone, even Rossi, that he’d used in the past.

The last thing he expected at the end of such a mournful journey was to find Garcia leaving yet another treat on his desk, like some weird, parti-colored Santa Claus telling him he’d been a good boy and deserved better than a chunk of coal.

It was too much.

The fleeting thought of Santa, trailing behind it all the Christmases, all the celebrations and holidays that the dead would never enjoy, pushed Hotch over the edge. Just a little. A tiny bit. One tear’s worth.

It was enough.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia’s first instinct was to run.

Caught in the act!

Secret generosity outed!

 _Run_!!

But then she saw the tear. Just one. In the subdued, after-hours lighting of the BAU, it was a shimmer her huge heart couldn’t ignore. It was a crack in the unassailable façade that her leader worked to perfection. It was human and hurting and in Garcia’s mind it cried out for comfort.

“Ohhhhh…Sir…” Her hands dropped from her mouth, curling against her chest like a chipmunk in sympathetic distress. “Sir…What’s wrong?”

Mortified at being caught at such a weak moment, and a little perturbed at her presence, Hotch bit his lip for control, raising his chin and refusing to acknowledge the tear. _Maybe she won’t notice if I ignore it; let it track downward._ He knew he was lying to himself.

“Garcia, what are you doing here?”

He should have known better than to try to deter her once she’d seen a need. It was as useless as expecting a runaway locomotive to understand sign language.

“Ohhhh…Sir…I just thought maybe you’d be hungry and, well, you need to eat more and you don’t take good enough care of yourself, so we worry about you and…”

It was an opening for Hotch to pursue the subject of the team’s shift in attitude. And it was a chance to deflect the way the tech analyst was looking at him; as though she wanted to scoop him up and sing him lullabies.

 _Ignore the tear. It’ll evaporate and you can pretend it never happened._ “Garcia, why would you worry about me? We’ve worked together for years. What’s changed?”

“I…uh…” Her usually unstoppable torrent of words faltered to a halt, and then dried up completely. For a moment she could only stare, large eyes swimming with compassion.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley picked up her visitor’s badge and allowed herself to be escorted to the bullpen. After normal hours, it was standard protocol to accompany anyone who wasn’t employed by the FBI; even the wife of the BAU Unit Chief.

Thanking the agent who’d provided escort, she entered, distributing frosty smiles as she strode purposefully toward Hotch’s corner office. She ascended the stairs, mindful of the eyes tracking her progress. She accorded Rossi a dignified nod, hoping it would convey that she was making an effort on her husband’s behalf.

No one had seen Garcia enter the area. No one had felt the need to look through the half-closed blinds covering the Unit Chief’s windows. But everyone saw Haley freeze in the doorway.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Garcia?”

Hotch waited for an answer, hoping the look in the tech analyst’s eyes didn’t presage tears. He wasn’t sure of his own control. Being assaulted by another’s weeping might be more than he could withstand.

But Garcia’s heart was full. Full of admiration, and sympathy, and the wish to absorb her White Knight’s sorrows so he wouldn’t have to bear them alone. Too full for words.

She closed the distance between them, balancing on her impractical footwear.

“Ohhh…Sir…You’re just so…so…” With a muffled, little noise that was eloquent in its own way, Garcia grabbed her boss’ upper arms. Pulling him to her, she squeezed him with the same passion she would bestow on one of her beloved stuffed animals.

It was comforting.

It was platonic.

It was heartfelt.

It was the first thing Haley saw as she came to collect her man.


	43. Peck!

Garcia released Hotch with a gasp.

It wasn’t as though her hugs were long, sensuous affairs to begin with. When it came to the Unit Chief there had been precious few and, when they did occur, they were brief, slightly crushing, and thoroughly heartfelt; the same kind of hug she gave her purple, plush giraffe, Xena. But seeing Haley appear in the doorway, patrician features frozen into a rictus of disapproval, Garcia put Hotch from her, pushing him an arm’s length away. She didn’t know why Haley should be upset, but intuition told her to distance herself from her boss.

Hotch’s head swiveled to see what could account for the stricken look on his tech analyst’s face.

“Haley? Is everything okay? What are you doing here?”

His wife’s eyes bored into Garcia. “I came to pick you up, Aaron.” Her face was expressionless. “Hello, Penelope.”

Hotch wasn’t sure of the subtext he was picking up, but it was unpleasant and, looking at his tech analyst’s expression, unwelcome. He took a step closer to Garcia, reclaiming her attention.

“Thank you, Penelope. I appreciate your kindness.” He glanced at the cellophane-wrapped loaf of bread in the center of his desk blotter. “And thanks for _all_ the things you’ve been leaving me. We’ll talk about this later.” He had a feeling he’d be able to get to the bottom of his suspicions more successfully via Garcia than any other team member.

He walked her to the door, handing her out past Haley. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.” He was the soul of courtly courtesy. But he could feel his wife giving off waves of displeasure that made his jaw clench.

Hotch would be the first to admit that women mystified him. He had less experience with them than most men his age. He’d fallen for Haley, and, as he’d been taught, had remained true to her ever since he’d determined that she was the one he’d marry. There had been a brief span of time when he’d been free to play the romantic field, but he hadn’t developed any player instincts akin to those that were second nature to Morgan. To be honest, women had approached Hotch, making it unnecessary for him to exert much effort. In college and law school, his male friends had groaned every time ‘Hunk’ Hotchner accompanied them to a bar or club. It ensured the lion’s share of feminine attention would be showered upon their tall, dark companion. The best they could hope for was some of the overflow.

Still, being a profiler made up for a lot. Hotch didn’t know why, but the look exchanged between Haley and Garcia in passing, disturbed him. Once the tech analyst was on her way, hurrying across the bullpen, looking distraught, the Unit Chief ushered his wife in, closing the door behind her.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The rest of the team watched Garcia flee.

“Pen...”

“Hey, Baby Gir…”

Garcia ran because she didn’t want the others to see how hurt and upset she was. At least, not until she’d had some time to figure out _why_! Unsure what had happened, she clattered her way back to her lair, desperate to avoid any conversation.

Once in the safety of her domain, with the ends of ribbon and purple cellophane still littering her station…leftovers from wrapping a gift for Haley’s husband…Penelope gave a single sob, releasing the tension and confusion that pierced her tender heart.

The animosity she’d felt rolling off of the woman she’d done her best to help didn’t make any sense! The last time they’d spoken, Garcia had given Haley a pep talk, had revved her up to accost Hotch in his office, improving the odds of obtaining his contribution to baby-making while the fertility window was still open at its widest. J.J. had said she’d take care of explaining to Haley why it might be better to shelve the idea, but what Garcia had felt and saw in the icy eyes of the Unit Chief’s wife was hurtful and undeserved.

Garcia huddled in her chair, hoping no one would disturb her. She needed time to recover.

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J., Reid, Rossi and Morgan exchanged looks in the wake of Garcia’s abrupt departure. Head down, they hadn’t been able to see her emotional state. Except for Prentiss. She’d had a clear view from where she’d been sitting.

With slow deliberation, she turned her dark, predatory gaze toward Hotch’s office.

She’d read the pain in Garcia’s eyes. Leader’s wife or not, baby coming or not, Prentiss wasn’t going to let whatever Mrs. Hotchner had said or done to gentle Penelope, go.

 _No one treats a member of my pack… **team**..._ she corrected herself _…like that and gets away with it._

When Morgan made a move to follow Garcia, Emily forestalled it, saying she’d check on her later, but she thought the tech analyst might appreciate a few minutes alone. Doubtful looks passed among the others. They’d missed something.

When it looked as though open argument would ensue with Morgan and J.J. particularly concerned about Garcia, Rossi told everyone to go home. Most did.

Not Prentiss. She settled at her desk with the patience of a hunter waiting for her quarry to appear.

Rossi didn’t comment, choosing instead to go to his office, passing by the windows of Aaron’s en route.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Haley, what’s going on?” Hotch stood before his wife, searching her face for clues that might explain the minimal, but hostile interaction with Garcia.

“I told you. I came to pick you up. Take you home.” She moved toward his desk, eyes fastened on the pretty, little, be-ribboned, loaf of bread sitting in the center. She reached out, toying with the curled, green and gold corkscrews making a festive, inviting presentation. “I always worry about it when you don’t eat after a case. I guess I shouldn’t. Not if you’re being fed here.”

Hotch frowned, feeling as though he should be on the defensive, but unsure why. _She can’t be jealous of Garcia, can she?_ He thought it was a well-known fact throughout and beyond the BAU that Penelope loved baking and showered friends and acquaintances alike with the results whenever the mood hit her. It was only the last few months that she’d begun leaving determined, little offerings exclusively for him. It was part of the mystery he wanted to unravel, but Hotch was sure there was nothing flirtatious involved. It was a simple gesture of kindness; something else for which Garcia was known. And that was a characteristic that should _never_ be abused. It was too genuine; too rare.

But being cautious, not to mention weary, recently tearful, and prone to behaving differently with his wife than with his colleagues, Hotch moved forward with care.

“I appreciate your coming to get me, but I’m not ready to leave yet. There’s still work to do. Reports. Paperwork. That kind of thing.” Her only response was to compress her lips into a thin line. “Besides, my car’s here.”

“I know. I thought…” Her voice lowered to a whisper, eyes still fixed on Garcia’s gift. “I don’t know what I think anymore.”

A tiny bubble of fear formed deep in Hotch’s stomach at the forlorn tone of her statement. “Haley…” He moved closer, his chest almost touching her shoulder. “…What’s going on? I don’t understand. Everyone’s treating me differently. Like they’re hiding something. Keeping secrets. That’s not good within a team like this. And it’s not good between us either.” A fragment of his conversation on the jet with Rossi about opening up more surfaced. “Can’t you tell me? I’m your husband.”

At last she looked away from the evidence of another woman’s concern for this man who brought out her fiercest qualities. She searched his eyes. “Why was Penelope hugging you just now?”

It wasn’t exactly revealing any of the secrets currently lurking in the corners of his life, but Hotch thought it might touch on some of them, if he pursued the question. But it would take an admission he’d rather not have made. Haley heard him swallow. “I think she saw I’d been crying.”

“Cr…” She drew back, studying him. Her hands went to his shoulders, then trailed down to his chest. “Oh, Aaron. Are you hurt?”

He blinked. Having admitted so much, he found he couldn’t tell her that he _was_ in pain; just not the physical kind. He had no idea why it was so hard to address subject matter with his wife that Rossi would have been able to detect and pry out of him with a single glance. Or J.J. Or any of his team, should they be so inclined and so persistent. _Why can’t I be weak in front of her? Work is where I’m supposed to be strong, but it’s easier to let go here than at home. That doesn’t make any sense. What’s wrong with me?_

So at the moment when he could have apprised Haley of his emotional needs, at least hinted at his deepest, darkest places, Aaron found his mind doing the same panicked, ricochet-dance that his wife’s had done when confronting the prospect of creating a safe place, a sanctuary, for Aaron.

“No, I’m not hurt.”

For a few heartbeats they remained close, engaged in mutual examination. But the panic-dance won. Hotch stepped back. “I’m fine. But I’m not ready to go home yet.” His voice took on a tone of finality. “I’ll see you back there in a few hours.”

Haley gave the loaf of bread one more glance before turning away, heading for the door. Chin high. Not admitting the defeat she felt in exiting without Aaron on her arm.

“Haley? One more thing.” She turned, hearing a slight hardening in his voice.

“What?”

“If you come to my workplace, I expect you to treat my co-workers with respect and courtesy. Every one of them deserves it.” He nodded toward his desk. “Garcia’s been leaving me stuff like this for a while. This is the first time I’ve caught her red-handed.”

Then Hotch did something that would have made Garcia’s wounded heart soar. Picking up the banana bread wrapped in Mardi Gras splendor, he unzipped his go-bag and tucked it into a corner, careful not to crush it. “I save them for the jet.” He looked up with a conciliatory smile. “Beats the vending machine junk.”

Haley watched him zip the bag closed. Unsure of what to say, she hid the frisson of resentment at another woman’s gift and walked out the door, down the short flight of stairs…

…and immediately felt the scorch of Prentiss’ glare.


	44. Bantam Face-off

With Aaron’s admonition to walk a fine line of respect and courtesy when it came to his colleagues still ringing in her ears, Haley spared Prentiss the briefest of glances.

The smoldering look in the agent’s dark gaze gave Hotch’s wife a momentary pang of concern.  Something about it brought Aaron’s eyes to mind. Haley lowered her head, intent on reaching the elevator and leaving; grateful that most of the team were absent so they wouldn’t witness her Aaron-free departure. She felt Prentiss’ scrutiny following her.

 _That woman looks like someone who’d be right at home on Aaron’s arm. Penelope looks like his opposite._ She shook her head, trying to dislodge unpleasant images. _So which is it? Birds of a feather getting together, or opposites attracting?_

Lost in her suspicions, Haley didn’t notice she’d been followed until Prentiss slipped into the elevator car behind her. When the door slid shut, she looked up at the agent lounging against the opposite wall. Suddenly, Haley understood what a bird feels like in the presence of a cobra. Trapped. No choice but to weather what comes, knowing it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Hello, Mrs. Hotchner.” Prentiss’ voice was silken. Men might have found it seductive. But to a woman, it held a subtext of danger, of something coiling, waiting for a reason to strike.

“Ms. Prentiss.”

“Everything alright?” Still that perilous, low tone recognizable to female ears as verging on a threat. “Not to pry, that is…”

Even disheartened at having lost the bid to bring her husband home, Haley was not about to bend her knee to another woman; especially one who was clearly at home where Haley felt so out of place and unwelcome. “Isn’t that what you people _do_? Pry?” It was an open invitation to engage one’s opponent.

Prentiss straightened, using her few inches advantage to look down at Hotch’s wife. “I’d prefer to think everything we do is geared toward protecting the innocent.”

“Really? Everything?” Haley couldn’t keep the mixture of anger and hurt from her voice. She had no idea how easily a profiler could read her.

Emily gave one curt nod. “Everything. Sometimes it takes unorthodox means. Sometimes we lose. But we learn something when we do. We learn where the danger to those innocent people is coming from. If it’s a new source, we look out for it; add it to the things…and people…to guard against.” Her smile was more a showing of teeth. “But, yeah…I’m here to protect. I’ll only pry in the name of accomplishing protection.”

Haley’s brow creased. “Are you trying to tell me something, Ms. Prentiss?”

“Yeah. You hurt an innocent colleague of mine…a friend.” Emily studied the lack of comprehension…or maybe care…crossing Haley’s features.

“Who?”

“Penelope Garcia.”

To Haley’s credit, she _did_ have a brief twinge of conscience, but it was submerged by her need to fight back when _any_ female challenged her. She grabbed for the nearest, available weapon. “She was hugging my husband. Is that usual behavior around here?” Raising her nose, she hoped she’d achieved a sufficient tone of accusation so that she didn’t sound pathetic. In truth, she’d never have revealed that another woman had touched her property, but Prentiss was bringing out her battle instincts. Thought took a backseat to reflexive parrying and feinting.

Emily’s lips parted in disbelief. “She was…” She shook her head as though clearing it. “ _That’s_ why you said or did something that almost had her in tears?! ‘Cause she hugged Hotch?!?”

Haley’s silent appraisal was answer enough. Prentiss’ voice took on a veneer of ridicule. “So are you mad at Rossi, too? He hugs Hotch more than anyone! Or…oh, wait…that would be a hug of friendship, right? But Garcia’s would be…what?.. a come-on? Are you serious?!”

Haley’s lips trembled with suppressed indignation. “You are _not_ to speak to me that way, Ms. Prentiss, or…”

“Or what? You’ll tell Hotch on me? You think he’ll be any _less_ amazed that someone could be such a bad judge of character, she’d suspect Garcia of…what?... husband-stealing? Really?”

If Aaron hadn’t so recently defended Penelope, although in a much more subtle, calm way, Haley might have waded in deeper. She might have tried to freeze Prentiss out, or somehow imply that being her Unit Chief’s wife carried enough merit of its own to warrant a more subservient attitude from _all_ his team members.

But Aaron’s words echoed right behind Emily’s. Haley began to realize she was at a disadvantage on enemy ground. The best she could manage was to retreat with dignity. When the elevator doors whooshed open, she stiffened her spine, raised her chin and turned to exit.

Prentiss had other ideas. She stepped in front of Hotch’s wife, wanting one last word.

“Mrs. Hotchner, I don’t think you know that this whole team has been turning itself inside out for months now, trying to help you get a family started.”

Haley’s eyes widened. She’d known J.J., Penelope, and Dave were in on it. She’d been the one to apprise them of her wish to have a baby. She’d asked each of them for help. But…the whole team? That strange Spencer Reid? Derek Morgan? And _this_ woman? It was a touch humiliating to think they were all aware of how many times Haley had _failed_ to attain her goal. And now Prentiss’ level stare wouldn’t release her.

“Mrs. Hotchner, it’s alright if you don’t appreciate everything we’re doing behind the scenes to help you. We’re used to working without thanks. But to turn around and _hurt_ one of us…” Holding Haley’s gaze, Prentiss gave her head a slow shake. “… _That_ is something I will _not_ allow.” She raised her chin, assessing Hotch’s wife through half-lowered lids. “I suggest you find a way to repair whatever damage you did to Garcia. You can’t expect help from people if you abuse them. And it doesn’t take a profiler, a professional _pry_ -er, to know that. It’s just takes common sense and common decency.”

The two women remained inches apart, eyes locked. Finally, Haley blinked. She didn’t have the words for something as foreign as an apology; not when it was directed toward another female, and an alpha one at that. The best she could manage was to drop her gaze and step around her confronter. She gave a small nod, an admission of defeat.

Prentiss may have read Haley’s posture as conciliatory, but inside, Mrs. Hotchner was trying to stave off a wave of panic. _The whole team knows! How did **that** happen?!_

The feeling that she’d better make sure Aaron found out from her, rather than his team, coupled with the realization that she needed to make her husband’s home turf as inviting and supportive as his workplace, plus recalling that Aaron had never actually told her why he’d been crying in front of Garcia in the first place when he’d never shed a tear at home…all the loose ends, unfinished explanations and incomplete actions…were crashing inside Haley like tsunamis gone ballistic.

She needed to think. And she needed to be someplace where no one could question her authority when it came to her own husband.

Prentiss watched Haley walk to her car, steps rapid, head still lowered. It was reminiscent of how Garcia had made her escape through the bullpen. Upset. Needing to run away.

That was fine with Emily.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch exhaled a small breath of weary frustration.

He _did_ have paperwork to do, but he felt as though he’d been drained. Witnessing whatever subtext had passed between his wife and Garcia only fueled his belief that something was running rampant through his life and still managing to stay off his radar. At least, enough so that he couldn’t quite grasp it.

He slumped into his chair and gazed out the window at the scattered lights of distant Quantico proper. In addition to everything else, he couldn’t keep himself from expounding all the bad things that could happen to children, all the reasons to question bringing one into the world. And, too, Rossi’s discussion with him that had touched on improving communication on the home front, was surfacing in his tired thoughts.

He unzipped his go-bag and extracted Garcia’s loaf of banana bread. Holding it in his hands, he stared at it, using it as a focal point, hoping to settle his mind and prioritize some of the aspects of his life that felt out of control, waving for attention like children on a playground trying to get someone to ‘Watch me! Me first! Watch me!”

_Children…_

Hotch was so lost, he didn’t hear the tap at his door. Didn’t notice Rossi until a hand descended on his shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze he sorely needed. He startled.

“Dave. You’re still here? It’s late. You should go home. Everyone else has.”

Rossi rubbed across the back of Hotch’s shoulders. “Not quite everyone. I think Garcia’s still here and I saw Prentiss follow your wife out.”

Hotch’s head snapped up. “What?”

Rossi’s lips quirked. It was difficult to tell if his expression presaged mirth or trepidation. “Prentiss followed your wife out. I think she wanted to have a word with her.”

“What could those two possibly have to talk about?”

“Oh…I dunno...” Mirth won out. “… _You_?...”

Hotch looked up at his tormentor and best friend. “Dave, please. I don’t think I can take much more today.”

“Okay, okay.” Rossi gave a single, one-armed hug before stepping away. “Then go home. Maybe spill a little of that emotional overflow your wife’s way. You know. What we talked about. Learn to share it out.” He moved toward the door. “I promise it’ll be easier to bear, if you do, Aaron.”

He was a little disappointed when Hotch blinked as though he hadn’t heard a word. “Did you say Garcia’s still here?”

Rossi shrugged. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good.” Hotch put the little gift from his tech analyst back in his bag.

He would take care of one more thing before taking Dave’s advice and calling it a day.


	45. Feather Clobbered

Prentiss watched Haley drive out of the subterranean garage.

There was no slamming of doors, no screeching of tires. She couldn’t decide if the woman was controlling the anger she must be feeling, or suppressing it. Either way, Prentiss felt sorry for Hotch. He had no idea of all the undercurrents swirling around him. She sincerely hoped she hadn’t just turned one into a riptide that would pull him under and spit him out, bedraggled and sodden.

But being Emily, she wasn’t going to worry about it. Not until she had to.

In the meantime, something else required her attention. Garcia’s car was still parked in a far, shadowed corner. The tech analyst hadn’t left. Prentiss took a deep, cleansing, post-Haley breath and went in search of her co-worker.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch waited until he heard Rossi enter his own office, ostensibly to gather his briefcase and coat for the trip home. With sounds of his friend rummaging about ensuring he wouldn’t be seen, Hotch stood, giving a small grunt of pain.

He’d almost been lunch for an alligator. Sitting on the jet and now at his desk, his hip had stiffened. He walked the perimeter of his office twice, loosening muscles that were doing their best to tighten in protection of the bruised puncture wound he’d hidden from the others. Morgan knew about it, but his discretion could be relied upon.

Hotch just didn’t want any more attention directed his way. He’d ordered Derek to keep quiet, buying the agent’s silence by letting him inspect the small hurt, letting his second-in-command satisfy himself that Boss-man’s injury was indeed minor. They’d settled on the ‘I slipped and wrenched it’ story to deflect the others’ concern.

When he could walk with a fair approximation of his usual distance-eating stride, Hotch went out to the catwalk, through the deserted bullpen, and headed for Garcia’s lair. He’d almost made it to the corridor when Rossi’s voice followed him, echoing through the empty space.

“Don’t stay too late, Aaron. And soak that hip when you get home. Use Epsom salts.”

Hotch grimaced. The closer the friendship, the less chance of successful subterfuge, and the less privacy.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Garcia?” Prentiss’ voice was filled with concern.

Penelope had engaged the lock mechanism on her triple-strength, steel door; something she never did under normal circumstances. The Bureau provided ample security for the custodians of privileged information, but Garcia rarely felt the need to lock herself away from her co-workers.

Prentiss raised her voice, unsure if it was penetrating the barrier between Penelope and the rest of the world. “ _Garcia_? Are you okay? Can I come in? Please?”

“I’m fine. Really. Go home, Emily.” Even muffled by four inches of reinforced steel, Prentiss could detect a glumness in the words.

“I can’t. I need to ask you something.”

After a moment of silence during which Prentiss imagined Garcia blowing her nose, and otherwise pulling herself together, a small voice came back at her, sounding as though it might be inches from the insulated doorjamb.

“What? What do you need?”

“I’d prefer not to have to shout it out for everyone to hear. I know almost everyone’s gone home, but the walls have ears…ya know?”

Sensitive to the protocol of privacy and need-to-know information, Garcia worked at the door, entering codes, pulling back the heavy slab of metal until a single, glitter-smudged eye looked out at Emily.

A sniffle preceded repetition of the question. “What do you need?”

“To talk to you. Let me in?” Voice soft and coaxing now that it wasn’t impeded by a steel barrier, Prentiss leaned toward her friend.

“I’d rather be alone. Really.”

“Would it help if I told you I ripped Haley a new one?”

The eye widened. An incipient sniffle snorted itself into a hiccup. “You did _what_?!”

Prentiss’ grin stretched, showing canines, making her look slightly devilish. “You heard. So, can I come in? Does trouncing the boss’ wife meet the price of admission?”

Garcia hiccupped again, her visible eye sparkling with curiosity and a native love of gossip. She stepped back, allowing Prentiss entry. “Please don’t get in trouble because of me, Emily. I don’t want that.” The beginnings of a grateful smile belied Garcia’s words.

“Well, if I _do_ get in trouble, it’s my own fault.” Prentiss stood inside the colorful explosion that was the tech analyst’s office. Figurines and toys shared space with all manner of glittery, feathery, spangled accessories that would have made a twelve-year-old girl’s heart flutter with acquisitive desire. Emily reflected that sometimes Garcia _did_ have a pre-adolescent quality that could be aggravating, but, for the most part, it called out the team’s protective instincts.

Penelope poked her head out into the hallway, assuring herself of its lack of traffic at this hour. She edged a small garden gnome into the opening to act as a doorstop, allowing better air circulation and a less claustrophobic feeling. Turning back to Emily, she pushed a pencil holder filled with Tootsie Pops toward her. Most conversations within the confines of IT were accompanied by upping one’s sugar intake. Prentiss let a satisfied smirk settle over her features as she selected a dark purple lollipop.

Garcia blinked at the panther-grace of her friend, the professionally fit physique. “Emily, when you say you ‘ripped Haley…’ that’s figurative, right?”

Prentiss enjoyed drawing out her response; pulling the wrapper off of her grape Tootsie Pop; savoring its tart sweetness. Finally, she gave in to Penelope’s imploring look. “We had a little talk, that’s all.”

“Oh…God…” Garcia’s imagination ran rampant.

“No, seriously, Pen. I reminded her how for the last few months this whole team’s been working overtime _and_ double-time to help her out. She needs to get off her high horse and be grateful instead of abusive.” Too impatient to lick her way to the center, Emily bit down on the candy, enjoying the splintering crunch between her teeth. “Haley Hotchner should be showering you with praise, not making you cry.”

Garcia’s smile was small, but genuine, making Prentiss glad she’d dropped by. The tech analyst reached for a Tootsie Pop of her own, a sure sign of emotional recovery. “Well, I don’t know about praise. I mean we haven’t achieved lift-off, have we? I mean, My Liege _has_ lifted, I guess, but we’re still waiting…”

Prentiss shrugged. “Still no reason for Mrs. H. to be mean.” She settled back in her chair with a chuckle. “She’s forgotten how much fun the _trying_ part of getting pregnant can be. Too focused on the goal.” Emily shook her head…

…and froze, eyes fixed on the door.

Garcia twisted in her seat, looking for whatever had arrested Prentiss in mid-motion.

Both women stared at their boss, standing just outside. Also frozen. Hand raised, poised to knock.

Within easy hearing distance of every word they’d said.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi stood at the door of his BMW, keys in hand, listening to their jingle as he fidgeted with them.

Something was nagging at him. Giving a resigned sigh, he glanced over his shoulder toward the elevator. It had been a long day. He would dearly love to go home and spend some time with his dog and his liquor cabinet, but there were too many loose strands floating about, ends waving for attention. He had a feeling he’d be dealing with them tomorrow if he didn’t do so now. And in the interim they would have become more tangled. Perhaps irretrievably so.

Scanning the garage, he could see Prentiss, Garcia and Hotch hadn’t left. Add to that the way he’d seen Emily trailing Hotch’s wife as she traversed the bullpen…like something prowling after unsuspecting prey… and he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Unlocking the driver side door, Rossi tossed his briefcase and coat onto the passenger seat. He dropped the keys back into his pocket and returned the way he’d just come.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Oh, God. Hotch.” Prentiss locked eyes with her boss.

The man was standing stock-still, but the most alarming aspect of his appearance was his expression. Not the usual fierce glare that boded ill for unsubs or other transgressors. That would have at least been something familiar. Rather, Hotch’s eyes held a combination of betrayal, shock and unguarded surprise that was far more disturbing than the stern severity of his standard, default scowl.

Prentiss stood. Going to the door, she pulled it open the rest of the way, toeing the garden gnome doorstop aside. Hotch blinked at her. There was something so vulnerable in his face, it made both women uncomfortable. It was like seeing him naked, stripped of defenses.

Garcia pushed up from her chair, joining Emily. “Oh, Sir. Oh…” She rested a tentative hand on his arm.

“Here.” Prentiss pulled a chair closer. Between them, she and Garcia maneuvered Hotch into it.

But once they had him off his feet, there was really nothing to say. They stared at him, guilt and concern uppermost in their exchanged glances.

Hotch, on the other hand, looked dazed. He stared at nothing, eyes focused inward.

His fine, profiler’s brain was assembling pieces that suddenly made sense, watching them fall together to form a whole that made him uncomfortable to the extreme.

That’s how Rossi found them.

Having checked the bullpen and kitchen first, he’d known the next likely place would be IT. He stood in the doorway, surveying the scene. Rossi hadn’t heard any of the conversation, but it was easy to see Hotch had. And easy to divine its subject matter. With a sympathetic sigh, the older man did a quick assessment of the Unit Chief’s state, based on body language and expression.

Rossi shook his head.

_You could knock him over with a feather…_

 


	46. Humpty-Dumpty

Having taken stock of the situation, Rossi stepped through the doorway into Garcia’s lair.

Prentiss glanced up from their leader’s stricken face. “We were talking. He heard.” Rarely had Rossi seen her look more regretful. Garcia simply let her eyes brim with unshed tears, a tribute to the surfeit of emotion that was clearly holding their Unit Chief hostage.

Rossi stood beside the trio, tilting his head as though observing Hotch from different angles would somehow alter the situation in which they found themselves. Of course, it didn’t. What it _did_ do was bring to mind a host of words and phrases, synonyms for the man’s expression.

Gob-smacked.

Blind-sided.

Thrown for a loop.

And definitely _not_ intended for public consumption.

Rossi sighed. It had been a long day, whose end suddenly felt unimaginably distant . “Why don’t you two hit the road? I can take it from here.”

“No. We can’t leave.” Prentiss ran splayed hands through her hair, finger-combing it away from her face; a gesture of remorse. “We did this. We can’t leave.”

“We _all_ did this. Prentiss…Garcia…go. Now.” Rossi was doing a rapid replay in his mind of all Hotch had been through during the last twenty-four hours. The discussion about crying, about sharing one’s emotions; the conversation about bringing a child into a world filled with terror as well as beauty; the case that Rossi suspected had left the Unit Chief with worse damage to his hip than he’d admit; Haley’s unusual visit. And now…this.

Too much.

For all the talk about putting feelings on display, Rossi was sure it was the last thing Hotch wanted. He’d just found out his personal life was an open book being read in secret by those closest to him.

_His first instinct is to hide. Forcing him to have an audience right now would verge on cruelty._

“We can all apologize to him later. He needs a little of that privacy that’s been taken from him.” Sighing again, Rossi pulled Garcia’s desk chair close to Hotch’s, lowering himself into it with a grim expression. “Leave us.”

Penelope was slow to collect her purse and coat; uncertain, taking her cues from Prentiss.

Emily studied the tableau presented by the two men. She knew Rossi was right. If anyone could claim to be a good judge of Hotch’s needs, it would be his best friend. Still, guilt and regret made her reluctant.

“Are you sure? There’s nothing we can do?”

“No. Go home. Get some res…” Rossi paused, brow furrowed. “There _is_ one thing.” The women brightened, hoping for a chance to, if not make amends, then at least demonstrate repentance for their part in the events that had left their normally sharp boss looking like a limp dishrag.

Rossi glanced at Prentiss. “There’s a bottle in the lower left cabinet of the credenza in my office. Could you bring it here before you leave?”

“Sure…sure…” Emily moved toward the door, eager to do something, _anything_ , that might help.

“Do you need glasses, too?” Garcia’s wide, worried eyes broadcast her concern. “I’ll get you some gla…”

“Thanks, but…no.” Rossi interrupted, eyes fixed on Hotch’s still-stunned expression. “I think we’re past the point of needing anything as civil as proper tableware.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

A little nugget of rage accompanied Haley all the way home; its bitter, toxic burn keeping her company.

In many ways she was craftier than her husband. Or rather, she was more adept at navigating certain situations; particularly ones that involved social infighting. It was partly native ability, and partly acquired knowledge. And it was traceable to their divergent upbringings.

In childhood, Haley had scrambled to ascend. Aaron had scrambled to survive.

As much as an individual could grow and change and learn, there was a certain inability to transcend one’s childhood. It might be buried deeply, as Hotch’s was, but it couldn’t be abandoned completely. The mechanisms of the psyche that respond on the most visceral level, emotional reflexes, continued to lodge in the crevices of personality, rising up at need and attesting to the true nature of the person harboring them.

Haley had been challenged by an alpha female with ties to her husband. As much as she’d backed down and been the one to retreat, she didn’t believe she’d lost the battle. The childhood switch that said ‘I must always be right. I _must_ win.’ had been tripped.

By the time she reached home, Hotch’s wife had convinced herself that Ms. Prentiss had had an unfair advantage. They’d faced off on the agent’s turf. There’d been a surprise element involved: Haley hadn’t known that Operation Ovulation had spread to the _entire_ team. And, most important of all, Haley had emerged the champion from the confrontation that mattered more…the one with Aaron at the center…

She was sure Penelope had received the message she’d delivered with a look, a few words cloaked in ice and venom.

 _That_ was the real battle. And Haley had won. Ms. Prentiss’ feeling the need to defend Penelope was proof of victory.

Haley reached home more anxious to begin a family than ever. Having a child would be irrefutable proof to all other women that Aaron was committed to his wife. And she longed to see that special smile he had that signaled pure joy. She was sure a baby would bring it out.

Yes, a baby would cement their marriage, and shore up any weak spots, and trumpet her ownership of Aaron…

It would resolve so many issues.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It had taken a good, solid slug from Rossi’s emergency stash of scotch to break Hotch out of his emotional paralysis.

Once mobile, the Unit Chief slid his chair to the nearest counter. Leaning over it, he hid his face, burying it into his crossed arms, like a child told to put his head down on his desk for misbehaving at school. After a moment’s observation, Rossi went to stand behind his silent friend. A moment more, and he reached both hands down, kneading the muscles tensed between Hotch’s shoulders and neck.

“Please don’t touch me, Dave.”

Shaking his head, Rossi continued. If anything, he dug in deeper. “No. You need this.”

“Stop it.”

“No. I’m not going to let you hide, and I don’t want you to feel as though you’re going through this alone.”

Hotch raised his head a few inches; just enough to be sure his words weren’t muffled; just enough to be sure the anger and hurt outlining them in fine, scalpel strokes was unmistakable. “You don’t want me to be alone, so you brought the whole team into my private life?”

Rossi’s hands kept working, moving lower so his thumbs could access the tender muscles on the back of the ribcage. “I didn’t bring the team in. You should know that.”

Hotch lowered his head back onto his arms. “I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know my _team_ anymore.” The misery in the words caught at Rossi’s heart.

“You know your team, Aaron. You just won’t admit to yourself how much they care about you.” He shrugged. “Or more likely, you won’t admit that you’re _worth_ caring about.”

“I’m not in the mood for philosophy, Dave. Or psychoanalysis. Just leave me alone.”

Rossi noted that the body under his hands was responding. The steely tension was lessening. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. _He doesn’t really **want** to be alone, but he can’t admit it. He doesn’t know where to go from here; or how to handle having people around who want to help. How sad that something like that is so far out of his experience, he doesn’t know how to let himself accept when help is offered. _ “Sorry. You’re stuck with me. Be smart. Make the best of it.”

“You had no right to put Haley’s and my life on display. _No_ right.”

With a deep, regretful sigh, Rossi gave Hotch’s back a final few pats with one hand as he drew his chair closer with the other. He settled himself, leaning toward the disconsolate form of his friend, elbows braced on top of his knees. “Aaron, I didn’t. If you can dig yourself out of feeling humiliated and, well,… _breached_ …you’d know I never would.”

Hotch turned his head a fraction, letting one eye peek out, the better to judge the truth of Rossi’s words. It met the steady, even compassion of Dave’s regard.

“Then how…?” Hotch found he could barely voice the crux, the enormity, of the betrayal he felt. It took a few, shuddering breaths before he could get it out. “H-how did my whole team get involved in something they should _never_ have known about? If you didn’t tell them…”

Rossi pressed his lips into a painfully thin line as he watched Hotch’s profiling skills engage. He knew Dave was trustworthy; had always been. And he was slowly realizing where the leak in his private life must lie. Rossi almost wished he _could_ claim responsibility. Or at least erase the deep hurt in Aaron’s eyes.

“Haley? No. She wouldn’t. No.”

Hotch lowered his head back onto his arms, achieving full coverage of his face so he could hide a little longer from what his mind was already testing and finding not only possible, but probable.

Rossi scooted closer and resumed kneading trembling muscles, feeling overwhelming, emotional currents running through them.

“I’m sorry, Aaron. Give it a few minutes and it won’t hurt so much. We’ll talk, and it won’t feel so bad.”

But in his heart, Dave knew…it would feel worse.


	47. Birds on a Wire

Morgan glanced at his phone, a momentary burst of adrenaline subsiding as he realized it wasn’t J.J. or Hotch calling the team in.

Rather, it was someone who usually offered enjoyable alternatives to the grisly business of profiling. A wide grin signaled his anticipation of some pleasant diversion. A movie, perhaps. Or a late night snack and some gossipy chatter.

“Hey, Baby Girl. ‘Sup?”

“Oh, Derek…Derek, it’s awful! Just awful!” The teary voice banished all hope of recreation. Morgan’s grin died.

“Wh-o-o-o-a-a, Mama. What’s wrong? Penelope?”

Sniffling, weepy sounds continued unabated, kicking Morgan’s anxiety level up a notch. “Garcia! Where are you? Talk to me!”

“N-no. Derek, I’m at home. I’m fine, but…but…” A freshet of tears forestalled further explanation.

“Garcia?” More sobbing.

Morgan abandoned all plans for a quiet night. Giving his dog, Clooney, an apologetic look, he grabbed a jacket and headed for the door, phone welded to his ear in case Baby Girl regained the power of speech.

“Hang on, Penelope. I’m on my way.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hi, Emily. Lock yourself out again?”

Prentiss was a sharp, capable agent, but she was still human. She’d locked herself out of her apartment once with nothing but her phone and a towel. She'd spent hours waiting for the building super to show up with a master key. After listening to her cat wail piteously because he couldn’t understand this game where his owner stood outside the door murmuring apologies instead of serving his dinner, she’d given a set of keys to J.J.. Just in case.

She wished that were the reason for her call now, but…no.

“Oh, God, J.J.. Something really, _really_ bad happened.”

The liaison pulled herself up, instantly alert. “Tell me.”

“Hotch knows.”

“Knows…?”

“ _You_ know. Everything. He _knows_.”

A beat of silence fell while the full import of the situation erased the last vestiges of drowsiness from J.J.’s eyes. “Oh, no. No. No. No.” Resting her forehead against one palm, she gave a resigned sigh. One thing about J.J….she was quick to adapt. “How did it happen?”

“He overheard Garcia and me talking.”

“Ohhhh… _Emily_!!”

We were in IT! And it was after hours! I thought he’d either be working at his desk or go on home after his wife left!” Prentiss hastened to add in her own defense. “I mean how many times have you _ever_ seen Hotch show up at Garcia’s door on a whim? Huh?”

Unseen by Emily, J.J. was shaking her head. “It wasn’t a whim, Em. We all saw Penelope come out of his office and scurry by without even taking time to appreciate Morgan’s muscles in her usual weird, poetic way. Whatever happened, of _course_ Hotch would go looking for her first chance he got.” She rubbed tired eyes. “That’s how he is. Team first. Other people first. He’d want to check on her if he knew she was upset.”

Prentiss winced. She should have known, but the confrontation with Haley and her own desire to make sure Garcia was alright had gotten in the way. Yes, of course Hotch would shelve everything and track down anyone whose pain he might ease.

And look at the way they’d repaid that rare and noble trait.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hey, Spence. You still up?”

“Huh? Yeah…” The young genius sounded like the soul of distraction, barely aware of the phone in his hand. “Uh…J.J.?”

“Yeah. You sure I didn’t wake you?”

Rustling noises gave the liaison a mental image of Reid floundering through drifts of paper. “I’m, uh…just reading some stuff. That’s all.”

Despite being the bearer of unpleasant news, J.J. smiled. When Spencer immersed his magnificent mind in the written word, the rest of the world disappeared for him. His power of concentration coupled with mental agility, shunted his thoughts into hundreds of tangents sparked by the subject matter of his reading material. To watch Spencer read was endearing, alarming, and awe-inspiring at once. Her smile faded.

“Uh, Spence, I have some bad news. Are you paying attention?”

“What?! Yeah! Yes.” The rustling noises stopped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She hurried to tell him, not wanting to prolong the worry she could hear in his voice. “Well, Hotch found out about everything we’ve been doing to, you know, help him start a family.” Silence. “He’s pretty upset.” More silence. “Spence? Did you hear me?”

Reid didn’t sound distracted at all when he replied. He’d returned from wherever reading had taken him. “It was bound to happen.”

“What?”

“Six people keeping a secret…seven, if you count Mrs. Hotchner…It’s statistically impossible, J.J.. Factor in the proximity of all those people to Hotch, and then allow for his experience and ability as a profiler, adept at reading what people try to hide from him, and…”

“Spence! I know!” J.J. wasn’t in the mood for a dissertation on social statistics. “The thing is, he feels really bad.”

“Yeah…me, too. We didn’t do this to hurt him.”

She could hear sorrow and regret in Reid’s voice and realized he had retreated into the world of facts and figures because, like Hotch, Spencer sometimes hid when he was hurting. She wondered if that sympathetic bond might come in useful when they finally had to face their leader to apologize and attempt an explanation for what must seem like the worst betrayal of his trust since he’d formed his team.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Mom.”

“Haley? Dear, is something wrong?”

After a hesitation…“No. No, not really.”

“Well, that’s good, then…”

She listened to her mother drone on about the bridge party she was hosting the following weekend. The tiny, familiar details of the Brooks household as it prepared for a gathering was soothing to Haley’s soul. It took her back to her childhood when there was no question that she reigned supreme; when no one stood up to her or openly defied her. Leaning her forehead against the doorjamb between the hallway and living room, she closed her eyes and wished things were still so clear-cut, so simple.

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear?” Mrs. Brooks had finished detailing the menu of petit fours and finger sandwiches she’d be serving. Unless her youngest daughter had something that required discussion, she would prefer to return her attention to the flower arrangements she’d ordered designed.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“And Aaron? Is Aaron well?”

The hesitation was too long. The maternal ear pricked forward, sensing her child’s distress. “Haley, honey, did Aaron get hurt in that job of his? Do you need us there?”

“No, Mom. Aaron’s fine. Really. It’s just…”

“What, dear?”

Her mother’s voice was so concerned, so inviting. It was hard not to give in and spill all her frustrations and failures at her parent’s feet. But Haley didn’t want to risk what might follow: a soft, gentle reiteration of all the reasons her family had been against her marrying into the Hotchner clan. She would feel as though she were drowning in the milk of female kindness even as her temper spiked at the list of Aaron’s family’s failings.

_And when you really sort it out, it’s **not** Aaron, it was his father they all objected to. That, and the fact that the Hotchners never joined in with the rest of Bluefields’ society._

Haley had realized she couldn’t talk to her family about anything ailing her marriage long ago. It was why she’d sought help from J.J. and Penelope in the first place. Nothing had changed in that regard. Except she had a feeling she’d just burned the bridge between herself and her husband’s team.

“I’m just tired, Mom. That’s all.” Then she added a bit of truth. “And I wish Aaron was home, but he’s still at his office.”

“That young man works too hard.” Sensing something amiss, Mrs. Brooks gave what she hoped was good advice. “You make sure he knows you missed him when he gets home.” Haley’s noncommittal huff drew an exasperated sigh from her mother. If the girl insisted on presenting her marriage as a perfect union, there wasn’t much anyone could do to help. So the older lady fell back on a tried and, as far as she was concerned, true, adage. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, dear. You might want to have a nice, late supper with your Aaron, alright?”

Haley had never told her family that her husband’s job stole his appetite.

_And now maybe it’s stealing more than that…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch refused to move.

He remained with his head down, nestled into his crossed arms, hoping Rossi would give up and go away. It was a forlorn hope.

Dave was determined that Aaron would not slink out of the Bureau covered with self-made shame and humiliation. For one thing, he didn’t think having one’s team turn themselves inside out for their boss was a totally bad thing. He thought the hurt and betrayal the younger man was feeling would begin to fade, if he allowed himself to acknowledge the high regard and affection he inspired in his colleagues.

_In the end, the team will heal and so will Aaron. And at some point he **will** become a father. This will all pale in comparison when that moment arrives._

Rossi recalled how even the _thought_ of having a child had subjected his life to a revision that held to this day. Even with his son long gone, he’d understood a different world-order had been imposed on him the moment he’d been faced with fatherhood. Not the theoretical I-want-to-be type, but the reality of I’m- _going_ -to-be.

The team and its leader would survive.

The real pain was in the marriage.

Rossi didn’t know what he could do about that, but he wasn’t going to let an aching Aaron crawl away without giving him a good talking-to…and maybe some more scotch.

So Dave wiped out Garcia’s pink, ceramic coffee cup with the dancing unicorns on it, filled it with liquor, and settled back to wait. Feet up on the counter, he cradled the overfull mug on his stomach.

“Aaron, let’s start with an old saying.”

“Go away, Dave. Please.”

Rossi ignored the request. “They say it takes a village to raise a child. Well, Aaron, sometimes it takes a village to _make_ a child.”

 Hotch cringed. “Shut up, Dave.”

Rossi took a sip from the unicorn cup. _This’s gonna be one helluva long night._

 


	48. Rooster to Rooster

Eventually, Hotch realized he couldn’t become a permanent fixture in Garcia’s lair.

The only other place he wanted to be was his own office. Going home wasn’t an option. Not until he’d come to grips with the enormity of Haley’s actions.

 _She brought my team into our private lives?! Why? Am I so lacking that she didn’t think we could conceive a child without…without…_ And that’s where he’d bury his head deeper into the crook of his elbow, trying to hide from stomach-churning embarrassment.

 _All this time they’ve been watching me, knowing all about our sex life and when I’d need to…to…_ And then his muscles would tense, contracting in a full-bodied cringe.

Rossi watched, occasional sips from the pink unicorn mug helping him remain patient. But it was painful to be an audience to Hotch’s distress. At last, the spasms that looked like unborn sobs lessened to mere trembling. Rossi placed his cup on the counter and came closer.

“Aaron, you can’t stay here. Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

Hotch had been so mired in his own emotions he’d thought Dave had left some time ago. He didn’t want to admit it, but knowing his best friend had stayed by his side helped a little. A very _tiny_ little, but still…

“Dave, talking’s not gonna help…” He felt hands on his body again. One on his shoulder; one on his side, opposite, running back and forth over his ribs as though the motion could erase the turmoil within.

Rossi’s voice was low, soothing. “Aaron, you’re one of the best at putting yourself in an unsub’s mind; figuring out what he’d do, where he’d go. Try to separate yourself _from_ yourself now, and go into the minds of your team. Look at their motives. Isolate your feelings for just a minute, push them off to the side, and profile your team. Compartmentalize. C’mon. I promise you’ll see only good intentions.”

Rossi’s eyes roamed Garcia’s workspace, hoping for inspiration. He needed something to jar Hotch out of his present mood; some way to nudge him ever so slightly over the line between his dark side and a more optimistic outlook. When he noticed a pencil holder sporting a rainbow of drinking straws rather than writing utensils, a mischievous grin, totally at odds with the situation, lightened his expression. The straws were the plastic kind with accordion pleats incorporated into their design.

 **_Bendy_ ** _straws…_

xxxxxxx

 

When Hotch felt something nudging at the corner of his mouth, he flinched. When he smelled scotch and realized Dave was running a conduit of some kind to him from the liquor bottle, he couldn’t ignore it. _Yeah, **this** is something we’d want a passerby to see…_

Rossi saw the muscles of his friend’s midsection twitch. But this time he thought the cause might be the faintest stirrings of humor. Not hilarity, but the giddy, exhausted sort of release that attends a brain weary from repetitious running through a maze of anguish.

“Atta boy...” Dave maneuvered the straw past the lips, running up against a barrier of teeth. “Just suck on that for a while. Like mother’s milk.”

Hotch reared back, turning to see a rainbow of spliced straws traveling from their starting point where they were inserted into the neck of the scotch bottle, down the entire length of the counter toward him, looking like demented IV tubing. His eyes tracked to Rossi, cradling the pink unicorn mug once more.

“Well, there’s only this one cup, Aaron. And pink’s not your color. So I had to improvise...”

Finally, Hotch sat all the way up, shaking his head. “Mad, Dave. You’re mad as a hatter…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Having roused Hotch from his lapse into mortified shame, Rossi hustled him out of IT and back toward the bullpen. The Unit Chief might have objected, insisting he wanted to be alone, but the sight of Dave trailing a long, colorful tail of spliced drinking straws behind him, still attached to the neck of the scotch bottle, kept Hotch bemused enough to follow in silence.

Once in the safe, familiar confines of his own office, Hotch dropped onto a small couch against the back wall. Rossi rummaged about, locating his friend’s simple, black coffee cup. Splashing some liquor into it, he pressed it into Hotch’s hand, noting the man looked distant again; already back on the treadmill of debilitating embarrassment.

Hotch started when Rossi wrapped his fingers around the cup. “Thanks, Dave.” He glanced to where the older man had taken a seat on the other end of the couch. One corner of his lips quirked upward when he saw the pink, unicorn cup. It looked even more… _fabulous_ …surrounded by the sober interior of Hotch’s office. “I think I might have another cup you could use…”

“That’s alright.” Rossi gave the glittering mug a fond look. “I’m growing attached to this one.” _Besides, it intrudes enough on your serious side to loosen you up a little, Aaron._

Hotch nodded. “Dave, I appreciate your sticking by me, but I’m okay. Go home.”

“Nope. Got everything I need right here. No reason to leave. Not ‘til you do, anyway.”

“I need some time to think.”

“Agreed.”

“Alone.”

“ _Dis_ agreed.”

Hotch’s sigh was deep and weary. He didn’t think he had the energy to argue. Rossi took pity on him. “Aaron, try thinking out loud. Work through it. Let me help.”

“Work through what? Knowing my whole team was sneaking around behind my back? Why would they do that? It’s the opposite of everything I thought they stood for. How can I trust them after this?” He closed his eyes to hide the misery he knew Rossi could see in them. “Why’d they do it, Dave?”

“They love you.” He toyed with the sculptural details of the unicorn’s horn. “Oh, most of them won’t say it out loud; not in so many words anyway. But, yeah…they love you.”

Hotch shook his head. “I don’t need their love. I need to be able to rely on them.”

“And you can. Affection is a byproduct you inspire, Aaron. I’m not sure you realize that.”

A few beats of silence gave Rossi hope that Hotch was considering the prospect. But hope receded at the Unit Chief’s next words.

“So if they care about me so much, why did they feel they couldn’t come to me and have an honest discussion?”

Rossi rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at his own fatigue. “Aaron, I think you’re avoiding the real issue. The team didn’t just one day up and decide it was time to ease Boss-man into fatherhood. It didn’t start with them.”

Hotch wilted. He knew where the chain of secrecy began. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew. And, if he was honest with himself, he could understand the plight his teammates would have found themselves in.

They were a workplace family. But their loyalty extended to his wife. If she’d asked them to keep secrets, they’d be torn; their loyalties split. Perhaps not equally, but split nonetheless. And if they didn’t see any harm in honoring Haley’s request, they’d do their best to support _both_ Hotchners. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, recalling the exchange between Haley and Garcia. He’d wondered if Haley was jealous of the tech analyst. Now he wondered if that uncomfortable tension he’d sensed was because they were keeping secrets from him, and his wife was unsure if they’d been compromised.

It was as unpalatable a suspicion as that of jealousy, but he had to consider it. _Especially now that I’m not sure of anyone’s part in this._

“Dave, this is the last thing I need right now.”

“I know.” Rossi shifted, turning more directly toward Hotch. “All I’ll say is you can rely on your team. Nothing has changed in that respect. We’ve just made a clumsy, ill-advised foray into your private territory. It doesn’t change how anyone sees you, Aaron. And it shouldn’t change how you see them…or me.”

“But you came to me and clued me in, Dave. They didn’t.”

“I offered Haley my help as much as she asked for it. As I recall, she didn’t expressly forbid me from talking to you about it.” He shrugged. “It might be different for the others. You’ll have to ask them…or her. But you also shouldn’t assume Haley asked every member of the team to get involved.”

Hotch’s brows rose. “What does _that_ mean?” The brows reversed, pulling into a frown. “Did you…?”

Looking into the mug’s pink interior, Rossi sighed. “Not like you think. Remember when we were talking about parenthood in the desert? The zombie case?”

Swallowing his recollection of nausea, Hotch nodded.

“Well, Morgan overheard us.” Rossi glanced up, checking on how this news was being received. “It kind of took off from there. So, don’t jump to any conclusions. Calm down and ask a few pertinent questions before assigning blame, okay? Use your talents. Act like a pro. Treat this like a case investigation. And try not to hurt so much.”

Hotch could acknowledge the value of this advice. But he also had to acknowledge that inside he felt torn to shreds. He needed more time to sort through his feelings before inflicting them on anyone else in the name of ‘getting to the bottom of things.’

“One more thing, Aaron.”

“Yeah?”

“Forgive an old man and an old friend for intruding on your privacy yet again, but I can’t help profiling you. Understand I do it with the best of intentions; not to upset, but to help…which is what your whole team has been doing, by the way…” Rossi hesitated, studying the inside of Garcia’s pink mug once again.

“What?”

Rossi looked up, engaging Hotch’s eyes. “With all that’s been said and all I’ve seen of you these last few months, I think there’s something still eating at you about the case where we lost those two little girls.”

If he’d been unsure of his suspicion, the haunted look that came over Hotch’s face gave Rossi ample proof that he was right. “Aaron, you’ve had to deal with losing children before. We all have. I thought we were putting those girls to rest with that burning ceremony. But we didn’t, did we…” It was statement, not question.

Hotch averted his eyes. Looking into his own cup, he gave his head a slow shake. Little Angie Sachs was still there, waiting to make her presence known at odd moments when he felt sad or weak.

“Aaron…look at me.”

A convulsive swallow preceded Hotch’s obeying.

“What is it? Why can’t you let that one go?”

Hotch bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Sometimes he hated how Dave could read him so easily. But with all the turmoil inside him, he knew his friend was doing his best to relieve some of it. He took a breath, releasing it with a shudder.

“Aaron?” Rossi’s voice was soft; as unthreatening and nonjudgmental as he could make it.

Hotch licked dry lips. He could feel again the small, warm body in his arms; could smell the iron tang of too much blood draining away, taking any chance of survival with it.

“She didn’t just…die. She said one last word. To me.”

Rossi watched renewed grief pool in Hotch’s eyes. “Aaron…what?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the moisture spill over, hoping it would carry some of the memory’s clarity with it; would purge some of the sound of Angie saying…

“Daddy. She called me ‘Daddy.’”


	49. Crack!

Haley watched the night deepen, her thoughts darkening along with the sky.

She listened for Hotch’s car in the driveway. She hovered by the phone, palming the receiver more than a few times, but always deciding against calling him…or Dave…or J.J…or anyone at the BAU.

As low-key as Aaron was, she’d read his extreme displeasure in the polite, soft-spoken reprimand he’d delivered concerning her encounter with Garcia. Haley wondered if he’d have stood up for _her_ , his own wife, as staunchly if he’d been present for the confrontation with that Prentiss woman in the elevator.

As the hours ticked by, she let her mind roam.

 _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be…_ Taking up a station on the living room sofa where she could see the front door as well as beams from any headlights that turned into the drive, she drifted in and out of a light doze.

Haley’d begun planning her wedding early.

When she was six, she’d lined up her dolls and stuffed animals, carefully separating them into almost-equal groups to fill out the bride’s side of the aisle first, and then the groom’s. The places of honor at the center of her fantasy were bestowed upon her cherished Barbie and Ken dolls. She’d spent hours embellishing her Wedding Day Barbie’s gown with glitter. She’d gotten a stern talking-to when it was discovered she’d raided her mother’s jewelry box, taking a necklace of seed pearls, which she’d cut from their string and glued to Barbie’s hem and shoes. She’d reenacted the ceremony over and over, at least once a week.

Now, eyes closed, she smiled at the memory of the moment when she’d realized the Hotchner’s eldest son looked a lot like Ken. Only better. She could read the worshipful desire in young Aaron’s eyes; could fan it to fever pitch if she chose. And took secret pleasure in knowing she held power over him. If she was nice to him, and maybe a little seductive, she could see the vein in his long, slim neck beating with his increased pulse. And there was always the delightful way she could make his breathing transform from normal-quiet to harsh-with-arousal.

Eyes still shut, her lips bowed upwards at the thought of making Aaron pant.

It had come as something of a shock when she’d realized _he_ had power, too. But she’d done a good job of hiding his effect on her. Haley needed to have the upper hand in emotional relationships. It was okay for Aaron to be stronger physically; to be the breadwinner; even to be the more attractive of them. But she needed to have a more direct route to his heart than he had to hers. It was how women kept men in their place…while still allowing the male ego to thrive. It was what made an effective tigress…and a perfect tigress-consort.

Haley admitted it was hard to maintain such control. Aaron could make her melt. And she loved holding him close or watching him when he was unaware, marveling at the splendid creature she could call hers. But as much as she indulged herself in the pleasure of ownership, she always pulled back enough to keep in mind that one of them had to stay focused. They could have been a power couple, ruling whatever social clique they chose to grace with their presence, if she had held the reins better. Aaron had too much sweetness, too much nobility at his core to be able to drive this team where Haley wanted it to go.

Her smile faded as she considered how things had changed when Aaron had opted to immerse himself in the bloody, sweaty business of saving lives.

Both Hotchners were still focused. It was just that Haley hadn’t lost sight of the original goal.

She sighed. But Aaron…poor, gentle Aaron, had lifted his gaze toward something she couldn’t see. A higher purpose? In her mind, he might as well be blind.

It was up to her to get him back on track.

She had no doubt it would happen. But baby first. Once Aaron realized he was responsible for a wife _and_ a child, he’d fall in line.

And the line formed right behind Haley.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Awww, Aaron…” Rossi could see the effort Hotch was making to stop himself from crying. He decided there were few things as pitiful as a grown man who deserved to vent his pain, being made to feel he shouldn’t.

“Sorry. Sorry.” Hotch ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stop the sudden flow of tears he hadn’t known were so close to the surface.

Rossi watched him try to  gulp back his sorrow, knowing it would either form a hot, leaden lump in his stomach, or would lodge in every cranny of his psyche, festering like emotional poison. _Or likely it’ll do both._

Normally, Rossi would have moved closer, offered a shoulder and found some way to get Hotch to accept his need for release. But he was wondering if it might be better to let the man attain some fragile control.

_And then go home and break in front of Haley._

Dave’s own marriages had been stormy, emotional affairs. Even if they’d failed, there had been something noisy and satisfying about the conflicts, arguments, explosions. More than once he’d been told by a wife that his Italian heritage was surfacing with passionate, operatic abandon. Rossi had to admit he enjoyed wallowing in the drama of man versus woman. Too bad his women hadn’t had the same taste for theatrics.

He thought some of that appreciation for the drama inherent between the sexes might be beneficial to the Hotchners; might push them out of their icy, proper manner of dealing with one another. But there were so many variables in how a couple handled marital conflict, he couldn’t be sure of the outcome.

_Still, something has to be done or those two will never really connect. They’ll travel parallel paths and have a ‘nice, little life’ instead of a rich relationship. I kinda wonder how they hooked up in the first place…_

“Ah, God…I’m sorry, Dave.” Hotch took a long, deep breath, exhaling with a shuddery sound that made Rossi think his lungs were made of corrugated cardboard.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah. I’m fine now. I’m just tired. I’m okay, I’m okay…”

The older man rubbed a hand over his beard, narrowing his eyes at his friend. “Maybe you’re right.” Standing, he stretched his lower back, pressing both palms against it with a groan. “We still have a lot to talk about, Aaron. But it’s late and I think you should go home. We’re on stand-down tomorrow. I’ll call you. This isn’t over.”

Hotch’s head hung. “I know.” He looked up as Rossi gathered his unicorn cup and bendy straw construction. “Dave…I…you’re…” His eyes started to fill again, testament to how brittle and conditional his control was.

“It’s alright, Aaron.” Rossi allowed himself a rare daddy-moment. Crossing to Hotch’s side, he laid a hand along one lean cheek, giving it an affectionate pat. “You’re a good boy.”

“You’re a good friend.”

Rossi’s grin was lopsided and cocky. “Yeah. I guess I am. Now, get your sorry self home.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi sat in his BMW, watching until Hotch drove out of the garage.

He opened his phone, searching his list of contacts.

“Hello, Haley? Dave. Aaron’s on his way, but there’s something I want you to do. Just trust me, okay?”

When he’d finished his brief request, Rossi debated mentioning something else. He decided he should touch on it, in the interest of moving the Hotchners along a path that might end in a better union.

“Oh, and by the way…Aaron knows you conscripted some members of his team to help get you pregnant. Sorry to break it so, uh, _un-delicately_ , but it’s late and I don’t think that should be the crux of your communication tonight. G’night, Haley. And good luck.”

Closing the connection, he gave himself a critical glance in the rearview mirror.

_Agent Rossi, you’re a nosy, meddlesome, old fart. You better hope you didn’t make things worse. You better hope Aaron still thinks you’re a ‘good friend’ tomorrow._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch knew his wife was waiting for him. After all, she’d shown up at the BAU wanting to bring him home hours ago. He still wasn’t sure what that had been all about.

He’d considered stopping along the way; pulling over and letting the grief he’d cut short in Rossi’s presence run out a little more before he had to confront Haley. The betrayal he felt about her crossing the line between home and office was combined with confusion about what he saw as ever-changing standards.

Trying to please Haley was like trying to pin Jell-O to a wall. She had made it clear that she didn’t want him bringing his work home…yet she claimed she wanted to know when he was hurt and the details of _how_ he was hurt. And now _she_ was the one who had crossed the line, bringing a sensitive part of their private life into the heart of the BAU.

The boundaries were blurred and, even worse, his trust was shattered. _And how am I supposed to get that back? I’m gonna be doubting my wife, my team…everyone and everything. I can’t function like that._ Rossi’s words played through his weary mind. _Okay. Right. Compartmentalize. Deal with things one at a time._ He felt his emotional control waver, but brought it back to what he hoped was a level where it wouldn’t get in the way of discussion.

_First things first. I need to talk to Haley…give her a chance to explain._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch sat in his car in the driveway for a few minutes. He felt as though he were treading on quicksand that kept changing texture without warning. He wanted to please his wife and do his part to make their home and their marriage successful, but he was lost about how to proceed.

He was still in a quandary, and beginning to realize he might be too tired and too close to his emotions to deal with much more than a shower and bed, when there was a tap on his window.

Hotch jumped.

“Aaron, aren’t you going to come in?” Haley had seen him drive up. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the front door open; hadn’t seen her approach. He couldn’t delay any longer.

“Yeah. Sure.”

She stepped back, giving him room to exit the car. But instead of preceding him into the house, she surprised him. As soon as Hotch was standing, Haley squeezed him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him, holding him immobile. Her voice was muffled.

“Oh, Aaron. I’m so, so sorry.”

He hesitated. _Sorry for showing up at the office and whatever that was passing between you and Garcia? Or sorry for bringing my team into our private lives? Or is there something else?_

“Come inside. We have to talk.” She was taking control. Hotch let her. A small nugget of insecurity would always reside at his center when it came to domestic issues. His childhood had taught him how things _shouldn’t_ be. He wasn’t consciously aware of how much he relied on Haley, coming from her normal family, to know how things were _supposed_ to be.

Inside, while his mind tried to transcend his bone-deep fatigue born of a long day and too many emotional surprises, she removed his jacket, slipped his gun from his hip and noticed him wince when she did so.

 _Damn it! He’s hurt again!_ But it didn’t seem too bad. And first things first: Haley could compartmentalize, too, even if her priorities weren’t the same as Aaron’s.

She sat him on the living room couch, taking a place close beside him, Dave’s directive ghosting into her ears… _Make a safe place for him. Make a safe place for him to let out the pain of that little girl whose blood was on him, Haley, or he’ll never have room inside for any other child. Not even his own._

“Aaron, Aaron, Aaron…” She took his face between her palms. “I’m so sorry I’ve been off in my own little world…haven’t been there for you…”

Hotch frowned. _What…?_

Haley pulled him against her, caressing his back, enjoying the feel of his muscles beneath her hands. _Mine…this magnificent man is mine…_

“Aaron, Aaron…if we have a girl, would you like to name her Angela? Angie?”

It went like a lance into Hotch’s heart, cracking his protective shell, shattering his emotional control into a thousand brittle shards.


	50. (Goose) Down in the Mouth

For a moment Haley didn’t know what was happening.

She’d never seen Aaron really cry. The closest she’d come to witnessing that unwelcome spectacle was to notice that his eyes glistened with moisture more than usual. But he always kept himself in check. Haley thought that was because he’d been raised to believe as she did: tears were a woman’s domain. Men didn’t indulge in such emotional displays.

She had no way of knowing most of Aaron’s inhibition was the result of his father’s heavy hand and scathing words. In the Hotchner household weeping, even for a child, had been a punishable offense. So was talking about what went on behind the closed front door. To this day, the sons of Hotchner, Sr. obeyed, speaking to no one about their formative years. Not even each other.

Although Rossi had breached that wall to a limited extent.

Hotch leaned forward, turning his head away. His first instinct would always be to try and hide emotion that signified weakness in his mind, or that called up memories of his father’s disciplinary methods. He leaned into Haley, chin on her shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t see his face.

Haley’s hug was unthinking, reflexive. Her hands on Aaron’s back felt the convulsive shudder of eerily quiet sobbing. At first, it scared her. But, primed and ready for motherhood, the urge to rock and croon and comfort edged out her initial alarm. She closed her eyes, seeing the little, dark-haired boy of her dreams.

This wasn’t her big, strong husband. This was the phantom child who’d been visiting her, telling her he needed a mother and she was it. She wanted him more than anything. Haley relaxed into holding Aaron, whispering to him that everything would be alright, that she’d take care of him…that he was a good boy…

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had tried to hold it in.

When he failed, he had tried to hide it.

When Haley’s gentle, soothing voice said ‘good boy…,’ she unwittingly touched on the same words Rossi had said to him earlier. Hearing them, Aaron wished with all his heart for the one man who’d seen him cry and hadn’t made fun of him, or made him feel like a lesser version of what he should be. That was what broke him: the thought that there was only one person in the world whose love wouldn’t change in the face of his weakness. Yet, ever the profiler, ever fair-minded, Hotch had to admit that he’d never tested Haley that way.

He was scared she’d turn from him.

When he couldn’t stop the rough, ragged sobs; when he realized she was pulling him in closer, rocking him, as broken as his heart was, it still felt a grateful thrill of wonder. Maybe there were _two_ people on the planet who could love him just as he was. Flawed and weak and scared.

He let himself go.

And Haley hugged him tighter.

It was only when the force of sorrow accumulated over months began to abate, that Hotch wondered at the words Haley had said that had acted as a trigger. He’d never mentioned Angie Sachs’ name to her.

He was sure of it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The storm abated.

Hotch’s control slowly returned. So did his fear of being censured. Then the touch of the hands on his back transformed. The comforting pats and caresses became sensual. He could tell Haley was _appreciating_ his body, not just offering solace.

Hotch wasn’t in the mood for that kind of consolation; not when so many questions still needed to be answered. It took some effort to push away from her. Although her arms were no longer circling him, her hands kept tracing the muscles of his shoulders, upper arms, chest. A clear invitation. Or maybe a demand.

“Haley…” Still recovering from an emotional deluge, Hotch’s brain hadn’t regained its usual articulate ability. At a loss for words, he frowned, studying her eyes.

“Aaron…” She closed them, leaning in, brushing her lips against his cheek, traveling the short distance to his mouth. They snapped open in surprise when he pulled back. “Aaron? What’s wrong?”

“I…You…” He had to draw on all his inner resources. He wasn’t used to resisting her. “We need to talk.”

“I know. But…” Her hands were eloquent; one in his hair, one in the center of his chest. She’d found the spot where a touch could render him quiet, complacent, calm. His eyes half-closed as her thumb ghosted over his breastbone. “…right now I’d like to hold you, Aaron. We both need it. Can’t we talk later?”

He was so tired, drained, and a whole new world of hurt might be waiting behind the questions he needed to ask his wife. Hotch tried to rally, knowing there was too much unsaid between them for the kind of activity Haley had in mind. But enough was enough. He’d been up for nearly thirty-six hours. He’d been slogging through a muggy bayou. He’d been raked over emotionally by their unsub’s taunts about the abuse he’d enjoy inflicting on little girls. He’d been perilously close to satisfying an alligator’s appetite. Then there’d been the flight home, the discovery of his team’s inroads into his private life, and the interlude with Rossi.

Enough was enough.

Hotch couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped when Haley rested her hand squarely on his chest, rubbing in the light pattern she knew relaxed him; in the place she had no idea was a souvenir of his father’s having kicked him when he was a child…an experiment to see if little Aaron’s heart would stop.

Hotch whimpered and Haley thought she understood. “Aaron, it’s alright. You’re tired. Just let me hold you and you can fall asleep, okay?” But privately she breathed a sigh of relief. _No questions tonight. I’ll have time to think about how to tell him, well…everything, I guess._

As she led him up the stairs, she was already casting about for ways to frame Operation Ovulation in the most favorable light possible.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi was a little tired, too.

The hope of a hot shower, a relaxing conversation with Mudgie and a pre-bed glass of scotch, however, were interrupted by phone calls. Morgan was the first.

Keeping Garcia company and trying to soothe her empathic heart was a task he found couldn’t be accomplished without some verification that Hotch wasn’t going to summarily fire the lot of them, or abandon his career, or throw himself into a life of dissolution in reaction to his team’s betrayal. As each of the scenes Penelope imagined became more outrageous, Morgan realized she needed more than one voice of reason before she’d accept that this wasn’t the end of the world as they knew it.

“Baby Girl, sure he’ll be mad, but he’s Hotch. He’s gonna get some rest, calm down, and then he’ll profile us and the situation. He’ll see we’re all on his side. We just kind of stepped over a line. We’ll say we’re sorry and that’s all he’ll need. He’ll understand. That’s what he does best.”

“No…no…oh, no, Derek.” Between snuffles and damp, wadded tissues Garcia managed to get a few shuddery words out. “He’ll…he’ll… _hate_ us…You didn’t s-s-seeee him…”

When the offer of cheddar-bacon popcorn failed to comfort her, Morgan pulled out the big guns. “Mama, if anyone knows Boss-man’s mind, it’s Rossi, right?” A tearful nod. “Let’s ask him. If he says Hotch’ll get over it, will you take that?” Another nod.

Shaking his head at the sheer depth of Garcia’s ability to convert empathy to panic, Morgan pulled out his phone.

“Hey, man. I got Garcia here and she’s all bent up about Hotch catchin’ on to us and the baby-thing.” He gave Penelope an indulgent look, sure her worries would be laid to rest in moments. “Can you tell her he’s okay with it? I mean, he’s probably pissed as hell, but we’re not talkin’ a bunch of pink slips on our desks when we come ba…”

Morgan halted mid-stream. He blinked. As Garcia’s eyes widened, he switched his phone to the ear farthest from her. When he half-twisted so she couldn’t see his face, Penelope’s hands came up to her mouth in a time-honored pose of horror.

“Uh-huh. Yeah….Okay, Rossi…Sorry to bother you. G’night.”

“Derek?” Garcia managed to put all her fears and dread and guilt into the one word.

Morgan avoided eye contact as he put his phone back in his pocket.

“Derek!”

He swallowed. “Hotch was pretty upset.” He gave the tech analyst a furtive glance. “We’ve got some explaining to do, and he might not let us off easy. Rossi said we better be prepared for the Hotch-glare on steroids.”

Garcia gave a soft wail, burying her face in a nest of tear-molested tissues that was growing at an alarming rate.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The calls dribbled in, asking after Hotch’s welfare.

Rossi continued to put each caller on alert, saying they would need to do  some serious justifying of all their actions before he believed the Unit Chief would be appeased. It wasn’t that Rossi thought Hotch would hold a grudge. He was sure the man and his team would weather this and maybe even emerge with a better understanding of the depth of feeling they shared off the job as well as on.

But he felt Hotch had a right to be courted. Rossi didn’t want Aaron exerting himself to untangle the web they’d all woven around him.

“What’d you think, Mudge? Go to him on bended knee and explain ourselves? Make it easy for him to forgive us?”

Mudgie thumped his tail in enthusiastic agreement. He didn’t understand why his master still looked troubled.

But then, Mudgie had never met Haley Hotchner.


	51. Lovebirds at Home

After a brief, hot shower, Hotch slept the sleep of the depleted.

Haley watched his eyes drift shut; watched his breathing even out and deepen; watched the lines of his face relax. And told herself he wouldn’t be upset with her whenever they got down to the business of explanations.

She spent most of the night studying him and delineating the points of the case she’d present.

First, they both wanted the same thing: a child. She was sure even Aaron would have to admit that, for two people who had no biological obstacles to overcome, it was taking a long time to achieve pregnancy. _And **that’s** because **you** have a very unusual job, Aaron._ She saw nothing wrong in being the one who took steps to surmount the difficulties imposed by her husband’s career. She was merely taking responsibility; making the necessary adjustments to accommodate his being an FBI agent. She was sparing him the distraction by shouldering the burden for him.

Second, she hadn’t told the _entire_ team that the Hotchners were engaged in baby-making. She’d confined her communication to Dave, who was his best friend, after all, and the two women who weren’t exactly agents. Haley perked up at that realization. It wasn’t as though she’d chosen her accomplices with that in mind; they’d stumbled upon her at the mall. But this was a facet of the situation that might be polished up and presented in her favor. _I didn’t involve any agents who might be distracted while in the field, Aaron; with the notable exception of Dave, but, well, he’s different._

It wasn’t her fault that their private business had been leaked to the others. Aaron would have to figure out how that happened on his own. _But it’s nothing to do with me._

Third, it was getting increasingly difficult to navigate the dividing line between work and home anyway. She couldn’t be blamed for a misstep when the boundary wavered. She didn’t want the graphic ugliness of cases brought into the house, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to know about the things that impacted Aaron directly. _Like why is your hip sore? That’s something that affects us both, so I do have some rights when it comes to your workplace, my beautiful husband._

Haley truly did hate the wall she sensed building between them, but she was sure that with the arrival of a son or daughter, it would come tumbling down.

She wanted Aaron to be happy. She really did.

And she was sure she knew how to make it happen, if he’d just trust her and follow her lead.

When she finally drifted into sleep, Haley did so with the vision of a perfect family in mind: two children, housewife, and a husband who was home for dinner precisely at 6 p.m. every, single night. _It could be so wonderful…if only Aaron would figure it out on his own._

In the very last blip of realization before dreams took her, she recalled Dave’s words about Aaron’s childhood being the source of some of the things that created friction between them. _Maybe I can get him to realize that. Then he’d understand why it would be better for **me** to be the one to decide what we both need. Or at least to have the deciding vote if we reach an impasse. Whatever Aaron went through, **my** childhood was perfect!_

_I got everything I wanted. I know how wonderful life can be if you just reach out and take what’s offered. He **has** to let me make a life for him that I just **know** he’d enjoy._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was immersed in dreamless sleep for hours, but he roused for a moment around 3 a.m..

He felt empty inside; his emotions strangely quiet. It was unsettling until he remembered the previous night at the BAU. And overhearing Prentiss and Garcia. And realizing Haley had a hand…a very _under_ hand…in authoring what had caused him such pain. And then he recalled the twin emotional storms. One with Rossi; one with Haley. _No wonder I feel empty. I poured everything out on them. Oh, God…_ a pulse of shame washed over him.

For a man who kept himself under tight control, letting loose as he had made him cringe almost as much as knowing everyone had been privy to his sex life for the last few months. The sheer force of his emotions scared him. Deep in the recesses of his mind where he never went if he could help it, Aaron carried the memories of other emotional explosions. Ones that had been conducted with stereo and T.V. turned up loud so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. Ones that took a toll in blood and bruises. Ones that left marks on a little boy who had trouble explaining them to his teachers, so he learned the art of concealment. He was a practitioner to this day; a champion hider.

Hotch was terrified of becoming that man who’d made learning to hide necessary. In his mind it was a thin line between crying with force, and lashing out with equal force.

He could feel Haley beside him, her arm draped across his midriff. He turned his head on the pillow, keeping his body still, not wanting to wake her. _Whatever we talk about tomorrow, I have to keep myself under control. I’ve done okay so far. I’ve never raised my voice or done anything physically violent. But what if that kind of behavior is just a hair trigger away?_

His throat moved in a convulsive swallow. _I love her._ _But I don’t understand her._

That melancholy thought accompanied him back into deep, dreamless slumber.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Hotch woke again, Haley was gone.

The aromas of coffee and bacon and something sweet filled the house, drifting up the stairs, enticing him to rise. Aaron obeyed the call of what he was sure were cinnamon buns. A small part of him was grateful that eggs weren’t on the menu.

And a large part of him was _not_ looking forward to a confrontation over breakfast. He wasn’t even sure how to start, so he didn’t plan anything while he shaved and dressed, thinking direct honesty would be the best avenue to take. As it turned out, Haley took the lead.

She didn’t need to be a profiler to see discomfort in every line of Hotch’s body as he approached the breakfast table. As a matter of fact, she was relieved. If he’d come down with anger in his eyes and iron in his posture, she’d have been thrown on the defensive from the start. Haley much preferred being the one to broach the subject, setting it on the table along with the pastries she’d risen extra early to bake as something of a peace offering.

“Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep alright?”

Hotch nodded. “Yes. Thank you. You?” He took a seat and felt his fragile appetite shrink from what looked like a delicious treat. Until things were settled between them, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy eating.

“I slept fine, thank you, but not much.” Haley took her seat across from her husband, settling a napkin in her lap with a demure flourish. “I couldn’t stop thinking about, well, everything.” She looked up, seeing the grave regard and the grim lines around Aaron’s mouth that told her he was still upset, but was willing to listen; to open a dialogue.

To her surprise, Haley found her own appetite diminishing. She pushed her plate with its sugary, iced bun a few inches away, giving her husband her full attention.

“Aaron…honey…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad or to hurt you. Just the opposite.”

A tiny crack in the shell of self-control Hotch had erected made his voice sharp. “By going behind my back to my colleagues? About something so personal?”

She let her eyes fill with tears. They were genuine. Haley _did_ feel bad enough to cry, but it was mostly because things hadn’t gone the way she wanted and that wasn’t _fair_! Her intentions were the best! She deserved to have things work out. If they had, she’d be pregnant by now; Aaron would be none the wiser; and his team would be all business as usual. “I thought I was making things easier for you, Aaron! And if you didn’t have that job that makes half your life secret and has so many terrible, horrible things as part of it, I wouldn’t have to worry about you so much!”

“You crossed a line, Haley.”

She wailed her response. “I can’t tell where the line _is_ anymore! What kind of line was crossed when I walked in on Penelope hugging you? Or is _that_ particular line okay to cross?”

All the signs of shock etched Hotch’s features. His brows shot skyward. His eyes widened. His jaw went slack. Haley saw her opening and dove for it.

“Every time you walk out that door, I never know if I’ll see you again! I always worry, Aaron! Crazy people try to kill you! And now! Now I’m going to worry about who’s hugging my husband, too?!” She let the tears spill in a free-fall of frustration. “You have _no_ idea what I go through while you’re gone! And now I have to think your team knows you better than I do? Can give you more than I can? Are the ones who feed and comfort you? Who you turn to first? I can’t live with that!”

Aaron had lost track of logic. It was their first really big fight. And he was realizing he wasn’t ready for battle. Forceful emotion that he encountered on the job was different from that which exploded within the confines of his own home. Hotch’s childhood came roaring back. All his insecurities reared their heads, taunting him that he had to be careful, that there might be a genetic monster lurking inside, waiting for something like this rampant passion to trip the release of its cage door.

As a result, he spent most of his attention and energy on keeping himself in check and under control.

It might have been better if he’d let loose, if he and Haley had met like two conflicting storm fronts, emptying themselves so something fresher could take the place of the tired, time-worn methods their respective upbringings had foisted on them.

Or it might have been for the best after all.

Haley expected force to be met with force. She didn’t know what means gentle Aaron would employ in such a situation. She was brought to a halt by his silence, but was shocked by the fear in his eyes. She wasn’t ready for it; couldn’t comprehend its cause; didn’t know how to respond. So she didn’t.

Aaron and Haley stared across the table at each other. Haley had risen during her performance, but Hotch was frozen in his seat, eyes large, tracking his wife’s every move. Haley had been about to bring up the subject of Prentiss accosting her in the elevator, but the one who popped into her mind unbidden was David Rossi. She heard him telling her that Aaron was raised not to share himself. Something about his parents. His father. And an inability to share because, growing up, he was never safe at home.

“Aaron…Aaron…I need to know things about you that you don’t want to talk about.”

His voice was rough. “I can’t tell you everything that goes on at work, Haley. Please underst…”

“NO! No…I’m not talking about your job now.”

She resumed her seat at the table. Reaching across it, she touched his face, seeing the wariness in his eyes. The shield between him and the rest of the world. “Aaron, tell me about your family.”

Hotch pulled back, searching his wife’s face for a reason behind a question he never expected. “We grew up in the same town, Haley. We went to the same school. What’s there to tell?”

She took a deep breath and prayed that Dave hadn’t steered her wrong, that his devotion to her husband had provided her with a clue to finding a way out of what might otherwise be a very sticky discussion that could end up with her on the losing side.

She stretched her arm, making up for the distance Hotch had put between them, touching his face again.

“Tell me about your father, Aaron. It’s important.” _Dave thinks so, anyway. And at least it’s a change of subject._


	52. Goose and Gander

It was like a one-two punch to the brain.

Hotch was still trying to encompass the concept of Haley thinking she could be replaced by his team… _Based on what?! A loaf of gift-wrapped bread and a friendly hug? Did I do something to hurt her? Do I make her feel so…so… **inconsequential**?_...when he was hit with her reference to his childhood.

An immature corner of him wanted to run; say he needed his coffee first, or he had to check in with the office, or…something, anything that would let him escape! But the man Hotch had grown into who was always keeping watch over his own actions, making sure they were worthy of the kind of person he wanted to be, rather than what heredity and environment might have bequeathed him, wouldn’t allow him to make such an obvious run for it. However, he did feel it was okay to cover his eyes, to bend his head and bury his face in his hands for a moment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was cracked, muffled, coming from behind his splayed fingers.

“Haley, where is this coming from?”

Eyes fastened on her husband’s reaction, Haley’s own mind was anything _but_ frozen. It raced. She could say that she’d always wanted to know more, but he’d been reluctant to talk, which was true. Or she could divert any anger that might be fermenting inside him for the happenings of the last few months to someone else. Haley made her choice.

“David Rossi.” _Well, it’s **true**_ , she told herself.

“Dave?” Hotch dragged his hands down his face, peering at his wife over the tips of his fingers. “You talked to Dave about my childhood?”

“No. No, sweetheart.” Haley tried to imagine injecting honey into her voice, making it sound as soft and smooth as possible in contrast to the jagged edges she knew must be grinding inside Aaron. “He talked to _me_. _He_ brought it up.”

Hotch straightened, leaning all the way back in his chair, the better to regard his wife. “Is that how you knew…” His voice caught, but recovered. “…A-Angie Sachs’ name, too? Talking to Dave?”

Haley gave one, slow nod; unsure if admission was a good move, but she didn’t really want to lie to her husband, and Dave _was_ the one who suggested she have this very discussion with Aaron. It just didn’t feel as though it was going the way it should. It didn’t feel as though unearthing the past would create the safe place Dave said Aaron needed.

Haley reminded herself that in the end the important thing was to emerge from this whole mess having communicated to Aaron her genuine desire to give him the tremendous gift of fatherhood. How could he possibly object to that? And if he realized what a huge gift it was, how could he _not_ forgive any tactics used to accomplish it?

She stared into the brown depths of Aaron’s eyes, wishing she could manipulate time and skip all the drama and pretense of the last few months, wishing she could just place a small, warm, blanket-swaddled bundle in his hands and whisper… ‘This is your son…’ or daughter, as the case may be. Once again Haley saw the little dark-haired boy of her dreams in Aaron’s sad eyes. And her heart melted a little.

She went around the table to stand beside his chair. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled his head against her. Her eyes closed as she pressed her lips against the top of his head, breathing in the shower-fresh scent of soft, thick hair. He was trembling.

“Aaron, all I know is I want to give you a child, and it seems as though your team keeps getting involved in our lives in ways that make things, well, _difficult_ between us.”

He’d been resting against her, letting her hold him, but now Hotch pulled away to look up at his wife’s hopeful, ingratiating, conciliatory expression.

“Haley, _you_ involved the team in the life we share. They’ll always be part of my life because I work with them, but you invited them into our _private_ business. You can’t blame them for agreeing to whatever you asked them to do.” The team would have been gratified to know that as he said the words, a small puzzle piece slipped into place in Hotch’s mind. He was still mortified and upset, but he’d put them on a lower rung of the ladder when it came to the blame game. Haley occupied a higher place. Hotch wasn’t sure where Rossi’s position would be. It sounded as though he and Haley were accomplices.

He remembered being approached by Dave months ago; remembered being nonplussed that his friend knew the Hotchners were working on increasing their number. But he’d respected Rossi’s honesty in coming forward. _And I knew then that Haley had brought him, a member of my team, in on our personal business._ Closing his eyes, he heaved a weary sigh. “Haley, when I found out that you’d told Dave what we were doing, why didn’t you tell me you’d involved others?”

She pulled his head against her again, stroking his temple and accomplishing two tasks: demonstrating a subtle physical control over him, and averting his profiler’s eyes from her face as she answered. “Lots of reasons.” She kissed his hair again. “I was so glad you weren’t mad at me for telling Dave, I wanted to sort of bask in having shared what I thought was really happy news with your best friend, you know? I didn’t think it would matter that I’d told anyone else, because the ones I _did_ tell weren’t really agents, so, well…” Her voice grew smaller. “…I don’t really know _what_ goes on when you’re away, Aaron, but I thought if I didn’t tell any of the agents who…what do you call it?... ‘have your back?’...” Her voice became smaller still; almost a whisper. “…I thought that might be alright. And, well, most of all…you didn’t _ask_ me, Aaron. If you had, I would’ve told you everything. I wouldn’t have lied. I _haven’t_ lied.”

Hotch turned his head into his wife’s body, considering what his responsibility was in letting this situation run amok. Before he could form any words, Haley spoke up again.

“And Aaron?” He grunted, face still pressed against her. “I didn’t tell the whole team. You know that, right? I would never have done that behind your back.” Hotch didn’t respond, but she could tell he was listening, holding very still. She decided to embellish a little; gloss over her participation.

“And when I brought Dave in on it, you have to understand, Aaron…you were hurt and they’d just brought you home. I started to cry. I just couldn’t stand seeing you like that.” Her arms around his neck and shoulders gave a brief, punctuating squeeze, signifying affection as well as apology. “Dave wanted to know what was wrong; why I was so upset. So…I told him.” Haley swallowed tears that threatened to form at the memory of pants-deprived, poison ivy-afflicted Aaron passed out on the living room sofa.

She felt a softening in her husband’s rigid muscles. For a fraction of an instant, she was back in high school, queen of the drama club, congratulating herself on bridging the gap between audience and actor; of commanding spectators to believe.

“That’s the only time I really talked to Dave about it. So you do understand, don’t you? Aaron?”

She felt him nod against her; felt some tension run out of his neck; began to feel as though the crisis had passed and her part had been relegated to a relatively minor, ultimately well-meaning infraction, rather than something felonious.

Even as he nodded, Hotch was puzzled. He wanted to believe Haley’s version of things. Really, he did. But if she’d only spoken up about their private life to Rossi that one time, how did she learn of Angie Sachs? The case that broke his heart had been long after the one in the desert where Dave, with gentle ribbing and warm wisdom, had revealed Hotch’s wife had included him in their private plans.

“Haley?”

“Yes, dear?”

“If you only discussed our personal lives with Dave that once, who told you the name of the little girl? The one I couldn’t save? Where did you hear about Angie Sachs?”

He felt the tremor run through her body, positioned as he was.

In the silence that followed, she continued to fondle his neck and shoulder muscles; bent to press her lips against his hair again. It was an instinctive attempt to reroute his attention to something else. Hotch kept his eyes shut, willing Haley to have a good, solid, simple answer.

_I need to be able to trust you. Please find a way to let me. Please…I can accept that you were upset and blurted something out to Dave, but where did all the rest of it come from? Angie and the questions about my childhood…_

He felt Haley draw a deep breath. “Everything else is from Dave calling me, Aaron. He’s the one who told me I should ask you about Angie. He’s the one who said your childhood is getting in our way.”

An extended pause ensued. Haley could almost feel Aaron rolling things around in his head. She’d been prepared to cover Rossi with blame to save herself, but second thoughts were already poking at her. Her tigress’ instincts were telling her that, affable as Dave seemed, she didn’t want to go up against him. He’d already trumped her by being the first to approach Aaron with the truth. She couldn’t afford to let the scales tip his way even the tiniest bit more.

She released her hold on Hotch, dropping to her knees beside his chair, bringing husband and wife eye to eye.

“Aaron, I know you have a right to be mad, but what are you mad _at_ exactly?” She hurried forward before he could reply. “All you’re really finding out is how many people care about you…and how _much_ they care about you. And that everyone seems to think you’d be a good father.”

She didn’t have to fake the anxious, earnest look in her own eyes as she searched his. “I’m the first one who’ll tell you I’m flailing around when it comes to your team. I’m _not_ on equal footing with them in your life.”

Something so intuitive Haley couldn’t begin to articulate it, made her aim for a half-sensed vulnerability in Hotch. “Everything I’ve done, Aaron, has been my way of trying to make up the difference. You let Dave and your team deeper into your heart than your own wife.”

Her eyes filled; it was her last piece of artillery. “At least…that’s how you make me feel.”

The tigress’ aim was true.

Hotch shuddered.

Haley might be a champ at avoiding blame, deflecting it, but Aaron would always be the first to accept it. At least in that way, they were a perfectly matched couple.

Aaron felt guilt settle over him like a familiar, almost favorite garment.


	53. Migratory Pattern

Rossi slept late.

After the emotional rollercoaster ride he’d watched Hotch survive, sleep had been slow in coming. He was sure it had been a very late night for the Hotchner household as well. Especially after he’d tipped Haley off, suggesting some of the subject matter he thought would best move the couple forward to a place where they could see each other more clearly. _And help each other. And form a union instead of marching along on parallel, never-intersecting paths._

He only hoped his unsolicited interference hadn’t made things worse or been misinterpreted as anything other than the helpful, affectionate gesture he’d intended. Rossi wasn’t obsessed with the Hotchners, but at odd moments he’d profile what he knew of them, both separately and together. He’d decided they needed what he termed ‘S&S.’ Haley needed to learn how to provide her husband with a safe-capital-‘S’ haven. And Aaron needed to learn to share-capital-‘S’ with his wife.

_Oh, not blabbing top secret, confidential Bureau business, but, Jeez, Aaron, would it kill you to let other people in a little more? Let them see you hurt and dream and get scared like a real human being? **Before** things reach the point where emotions become epic and you burst?_

Rossi ran a hand over his still-gritty eyes. Hotch had a peculiar tendency to see himself in black and white. It was like living in a pressure-cooker. Things were held in until they built to explosive proportions. The odd part was that Aaron granted the rest of the world the right to exist in gray areas; places where leniency and understanding abounded. As far as Rossi could tell, his stringent code of personal perfection was only applicable to the Unit Chief.

Rossi hoped that Haley would be able to transcend her own private agenda enough to realize she’d accomplish her goals more easily if she abandoned them a little.

_Get inside Aaron while he’s showing some cracks, girl. And once you’re there, just love him. Let him know you see the lesser man he tries to hide from the world…and it doesn’t make a difference in how you feel about him._

There were other things they needed to work on, but Rossi thought, from his perspective of three failed marriages, that if the S&S issues could be resolved, any other problems would diminish to manageable size.

He glanced at his bedside clock. A little after ten. Still too early to make the promised call to Hotch. Rossi decided he’d wait and invite his friend out for a mid-afternoon drink. A little early, but the man might need it. _We’ll see…_

A wet nose intruded on any further ruminations. Late night or not, in Mudge-world some standards _had_ to be maintained. Like walks. And treats. And general ear-ruffling. And breakfast. Lots of breakfast.

Smiling, Rossi rose to meet his dog’s demands.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley began to realize that she wouldn’t be getting off easy. She wouldn’t be able to gloss over her activities of the past several months. Not with cinnamon buns. Not with well-crafted excuses. Not with kisses and caresses.

It was a little frustrating.

Every time she’d feel Aaron’s muscles release some of their tension, he’d think of something else he wanted clarified. Another question would arise, his head would lift, and physical signs of stress would reappear. Finally, she stood behind him and dug her fingers into the tightness, trying to smooth out manually what she couldn’t seem to reach verbally.

It might have worked.

Except Hotch, despite having vented a great deal of his emotional baggage the night before, despite having slept, couldn’t help thinking of yesterday when Rossi’s hands had performed the same therapeutic dance across his shoulders and down his spine as Haley was now attempting. As soon as Hotch’s mind embraced the physical comparison, it jumped to a contextual one. Dave had pushed him a little. As did Haley. But Hotch sensed Rossi was standing to the side, trying to communicate instructions that would steer one through a maze. The older man was full of wistful hope that the instructions would be heeded, making Hotch’s journey easier.

It wasn’t like that with Haley.

She was trying to steer Hotch, too. But he didn’t feel there was choice involved. Haley was ready to command, whereas Rossi merely suggested. Free will and personal responsibility had a large part in Dave’s methods. Not so much in Haley’s.

Hotch was reminded of a book that had intrigued him, coincidentally around the time he met his future bride in high school. John Steinbeck’s ‘East of Eden.’ Hotch would never forget how his attention was first caught because the story contained a character named Aaron, who eliminated one ‘A’ from his name to become Aron. But it was deeper in when the book’s real meaning gripped with such force that, decades later, it still slipped to the forefront of Hotch’s thoughts on occasion.

There had been a discussion of the Hebrew word _timshel_ by a Chinese housekeeper and biblical scholar. It was argued that the translation is usually passed along as ‘thou shalt.’ But after long study, the man realized a truer translation was ‘thou mayest.’

Young Hotch, beleaguered on so many fronts, had stared at the revelation, his fine mind instantly grasping the tremendous difference. The difference between a command…thou shalt not…and a choice…thou mayest not… The ultimate message of Steinbeck’s tale being that the characters, Aron and his brother Cal, had the power to form their own destinies, and escape the constraints imposed by the legacy of their parents.

That concept had meant everything to teenaged Aaron whose father embodied all that he wished to avoid in his life…in himself. The story had been a signpost, a way out, when he’d been miserable, wrestling with versions of his own identity. In the end Hotch wasn’t what his father or his town told him he was. He’d made the choice to be a different kind of man than anyone expected. And to this day, he stood guard over that choice, reinforcing it at every opportunity; constantly on the alert for any backsliding.

Now, as Haley massaged his shoulders, taking command of his body, her soft words coaxing and cajoling, Aaron felt ‘East of Eden’ opening its covers, releasing spirits that somehow manifested at another crossroads of his life, when the issue of parenthood was center stage.

Both Rossi and Haley advocated fatherhood for him. But Dave set out a gentle choice. Haley didn’t. His best friend nudged. His wife shoved.

Her skillful hands kneaded his muscles. Moved lower.

“Aaron, sweetheart, would you like to go back upstairs? With me?”

Hotch was beginning to feel a little crowded. He turned to confront the hopeful invitation in his wife’s eyes, feeling an old, Chinese character from literature standing at his shoulder, whispering of free will and responsibility.

“Haley, I’m sorry, but I need to go for a walk. I need some air.”

Her posture slumped in defeat. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”

He nodded, gathered his phone and jacket, and left. It wasn’t until he was half a block away that Aaron wondered why Haley had felt the need to ask. _What did I do to make her so insecure?_ And the sad inevitability followed… _If she feels that way, maybe I should, too._

Hotch wandered an aimless route, wondering when his marriage had become so shaky.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It was afternoon before Rossi was free of Mudgie’s demands. The dog always required extra attention when his master’s job had interfered with their normal routine. Once canine comfort was satisfied, Rossi pulled out his phone and pressed ‘1,’ the number he’d always assigned to Hotch.

“Yeah?” It was a subdued voice that answered. Dave could hear street noise in the background.

“Aaron? Where are you? Everything okay?”

The pause was too long.

“Aaron!”

“Yeah. I’m here. Sorry. I was thinking.”

Rossi was balanced between concern and amusement. “Thinking? About what? Where you are, or if you’re okay?”

“Huh? Uh, no.” A deep sigh registered over the traffic noise. “Sorry, Dave. I don’t know.”

“O-k-a-y…now I’m worried. Aaron, where are you?”

“Out walking. I’m, uh…” The volume wavered. Rossi could tell Hotch was looking for landmarks, street signs, something that would locate him. “…on Bristol Avenue. And…” Another fade in and out. “…and Ninth Street.”

“But you’re okay?”

Rossi couldn’t decipher the mumbled response. Nonetheless, his inner alarm began to sound. “Listen, Aaron, there’s a coffee shop one block over on Eighth. I’ll meet you there, okay? Will you wait for me there?”

When Hotch answered this time, his voice was more present, alleviating some of Rossi’s concern. “Dave, I’m fine. I’m just a little distracted right now. You don’t have to worry about me. Enjoy your day off. I’m fine.”

“Aaron, go to the coffee shop. I’m on my way and if you’re not there, I’ll have to sit alone and everyone will feel sorry for the old guy who doesn’t have any friends.” A muffled snort of mirth told Rossi he’d finally reached through whatever preoccupied the younger man.

“Okay, Dave. I’ll be there.”

“Good. See you in a bit.”

Rossi hung up, feeling a rush of anxiety supplant the brief humor. After the emotional fallout of the previous two days, he couldn’t think of a single good reason for Aaron to choose wandering the streets over staying at home.

 


	54. Easter Egg

With Aaron gone, Haley slumped into a chair at the table set for two, and stared at the uneaten cinnamon rolls.

It wasn’t too worrisome. Aaron’s appetite was always iffy immediately following a case. More disturbing was his departure. The first port of call for Haley’s thoughts was that she should have a nice, enticing meal in the works whenever her husband returned. She’d seen on occasion the appreciative look in his eyes when he’d open the door on a house redolent with the aromas of good food.

No sooner had the idea formed, than it dissipated. Haley felt the prick behind her eyes that presaged tears. She ground the heels of her hands against them, staving off something that was useless and self-indulgent without someone to witness them. Which is when she froze, her mind finally perceiving her own behavioral patterns that she’d thought were so reliably proven, they were a sure-fire, winner’s manual for marital bliss.

 _Aaron doesn’t want the trappings? Is that it?_ When Dave had told her to create a safe place for him, Haley’d immediately envisioned what she’d been striving to provide since the day of her marriage vows. A tidy, comfortable house. Good meals. Sex on call. And she’d thought the one thing missing to make the picture perfect was children. It was what she’d grown up believing was every man’s wish to come home to.

All the light-hearted television shows depicting stay-at-home moms who had dinner on the table the minute their suited, briefcase-toting husbands walked in the door, cheerfully announcing ‘I’m home, honey!’…all the sessions with her friends when they’d play house with their Barbies and Kens…all the timeworn sayings dropped into her ears: ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ ‘Men never ask directions, so women must give them,’ ‘Behind every successful man is a strong woman,’ ‘Happy in bed, means happily wed’…They went on and on painting the picture of wedded happiness that Haley had thrown herself into creating. She’d been the best at everything growing up. It was unthinkable to fail at marriage!

She turned, taking a long, slow look at her surroundings. For a moment the image of an Easter egg her father had once given her popped into her thoughts.

It had been crafted exclusively of sugar, the outer shell sparkling with pristine, white crystals. An oval window had been cut into one side. Decorated with piped ruffles of pink icing, it gave onto a view of domestic perfection: a miniature sugar family gathered around a table with a sugar meal set upon it, sugar smiles on all their faces.

While little Aaron had been struggling with broken bones and bruises, little Haley had been closing her eyes, telling herself that if she let the sugar people dissolve in her mouth, her dream of becoming the wife in a perfect, sparkly-sweet, sugar home, would come true.

She walked to the windows flanking the front door and looked out on the manicured street. No sign of Aaron.

Haley leaned against the glass, keeping watch…and feeling all the sugar walls around her starting to crack.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi arrived at homey, hole-in-the-wall Celia’s Sip-N-Chat to see Hotch keeping a brooding presence in a far corner, a Spartan cup of black coffee before him. He made a gloomy picture compared to the smiling patrons engaged in conversation, nursing a variety of caffeinated confections topped with whorls of whipped cream drizzled with chocolate…or tiny candied flowers…or rainbow sprinkles. Dave noticed the tables nearest to Hotch were vacant, as though the man’s mood actively repelled those of cheerier disposition.

_He’s probably scaring away a good portion of Celia’s customers with that Grim Reaper impression he’s got going on._

Rossi adopted a smile as he entered the shop and made his way over to the sullen Unit Chief, whose unintentional glower was directed at all and sundry, but mostly his cup. There was slight, but gratifying, lightening of his expression when he looked up to see Dave before him. It was brought under tight control within seconds. Rossi gave one of Hotch’s shoulders a companionable squeeze as he took a seat. He noted there was some tension in the muscles, and his welcoming smile hadn’t been returned.

“Aaron. Thank you for coming so I don’t look pathetic and lonely sitting all by myself…nursing a single cup…making it last…prolonging the moment I have to return to my sad, empty house…”

Hotch regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Knock it off, Dave. You live in a virtual palace and you could have company any time you want just by opening your little, black book. Which runs to several volumes according to Bureau gossip. Or maybe I should say Bureau _legend_.”

Rossi shrugged the comment off, signaling to the barista behind the counter for number seven on their list of offerings; a decadent concoction that involved caramel, chocolate and  two liqueurs. “Well, idle tongues and all that. Still…” He returned his attention to his companion. “…I’m glad you’re here.”

Hotch’s eyes fixed on the older agent with unusual intensity, even for him. “When I say I’ll meet you, I’ll meet you. I’m trustworthy that way.”

Rossi leaned back, all levity gone, surveying the man across the table through half-lowered lids. He stroked his beard with one hand. “Meaning you’re trustworthy and I’m not.”

Hotch’s focus didn’t waver. Neither did Rossi’s.

When his order had been delivered by a waitress whose nervous glances made it clear she knew some kind of confrontation was in progress, Dave broke away. Looking down, he sampled his drink. “So you talked to Haley.”

“Apparently, so did you.”

Rossi nodded. His profiler’s ears could hear more subtext than Hotch was aware of revealing. Dave could detect a plea in his friend’s voice. Aaron was upset, but not angry at any one person. Yet. He wanted to be rescued from rage with explanations, revelations…anything that could help him understand. _But he couldn’t get what he needed from Haley._ Rossi sighed. _Sad._

“Yes, Aaron. I talked to your wife three or four times, as I recall.”

Hotch blinked. After the conversation with his wife, he’d somehow expected a more elusive response. In truth, he’d been hoping for a reason to blame Rossi. Somehow he felt safer about being angry with his best friend, than with his wife. He didn’t want to delve into the reasons why just yet. But Rossi was in front of him and willing to speak frankly. So Hotch continued.

“Behind my back. Why?”

“I guess I was hoping if enough people pushed the right buttons on you, that secret compartment you keep inside might pop open.” Rossi settled back in his chair, taking a moment to gaze out the window and take an appreciative sip of his drink. When he looked back at Hotch, an elaborate whipped cream mustache roosted on his upper lip. It was a tactical maneuver.

Hotch stared. When Rossi tilted his chin higher, raising one eyebrow and making no move to remedy the situation, Hotch’s lips began to twitch; a telling sign that he was trying to keep laughter at bay.

“Give it up, Aaron. Stop trying to keep things inside that need to get out.”

But alpha males are a rebellious lot. Hotch pressed his lips together with painful force until the impulse passed. “I’m serious, Dave.”

Rossi sighed. “Yeah. That’s part of the problem.” He presented his profile, creamy mustache drooping only a little. “Are you gonna make me put this stuff on my eyebrows, too? ‘Cause I will. I’ll do it.”

 “Dave. Please.”

The older agent relented, wiping the whipped cream from his face. “Alright, alright.” He turned to face Hotch. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, Rossi searched his friend’s eyes. “Yes, on occasion I’ve talked to your wife. I’ve also, on occasion, spoken about you to each of your teammates…to the Director…to victims and unsubs…”

“Stop trying to make this a joke.”

Rossi’s expression was as devoid of humor as Hotch’s. “I’m not joking. I’m laying out the facts for you, Aaron.” Hotch pulled back a fraction of an inch; enough to signal that Dave could continue uninterrupted. “I answer questions about you, and I tell people things I hope and pray will help them deal with you, because to most of them, you’re a closed book.”

He held up a temporizing hand. “Oh, I’m not saying you’re difficult to handle, or hard to work with. Just the opposite. People in general like you, Aaron. That makes them want to get to know you better. And that’s where they run into a wall. They can’t get past the barrier you put up to…what?...keep the world from touching you?...keep anyone from getting too close?”

Rossi leaned in even more. “Why do you do that?” His voice softened. “What are you afraid of, Aaron? Even with your own wife, what are you afraid of?”

A casual observer wouldn’t have noticed anything, but Rossi saw the minutiae, the tiny shifts in facial musculature and in respiration that told him he’d hit a tender spot. He expected resistance. He wasn’t disappointed.

“What do you want me to do, Dave? Go around bawling my eyes out? ‘Cause that’s what I did last night with you _and_ Haley. What good did it do?”

“What _harm_ did it do, Aaron?”

Hotch’s slight recoil told Rossi he’d hit another chink in the Unit Chief’s armor.

“I told you. I don’t like to do that at home because it upsets Haley.”

Rossi leaned back, stroking his beard again while he studied Hotch through narrowed eyes. “So what did Haley do when you cried?”

Hotch stared. Silent. Rossi counted it a victory that he was still sitting at the table and hadn’t bolted. He felt deep sadness for this man whose perception was uncanny when it came to deciphering others, but floundered in quiet desperation when it came to assessing himself.

“Aaron, I know this is hard for you. But if you can’t be honest with me, then I don’t think there’s much hope you can be honest with yourself.” A dark flash of anger in Hotch’s eyes made Rossi hurry on. “Seeing one’s own faults is difficult enough. But you _create_ them, Aaron. You see so many objectionable facets to yourself, and you try to keep them under wraps because you think you’re sparing those around you. Your self-image is all skewed and warped.” His quiet voice still managed to be forceful. “Now, what did Haley do when you lost control and, in your words, ‘bawled your eyes out?’”

Hotch finally  dropped his gaze to his hands, kneading his knuckles in his lap. “She held me.”

A few beats of silence passed before Rossi realized that was all Hotch had to say. He shook his head.

“So you cried and your wife comforted you, and… that was a bad thing?”

“I’m sure she would’ve preferred it hadn’t happened.” His voice grew smaller. “I know _I_ do.”

“Well…” Rossi let the beginnings of a smile touch his lips. “…here we go again. The great Aaron Hotchner, Man of Steel, isn’t allowed to cry like a real human boy. And when the reaction he gets when he slips up is someone holds him and tries to make him feel better…well…that’s a bad thing because Aaron Hotchner is supposed to be better than everyone else, so when he fails and is hurting just like a normal person, he doesn’t deserve comfort.”

Hotch’s head snapped up. “I don’t think that.”

Rossi felt he might be getting close to the crux of the matter. “Then what is it? Why can’t you let anyone in? I’ll ask you again…what are you afraid of, Aaron?”

Despite his objections, Hotch was an honest man. Even as he parried Dave’s verbal prodding, his mind was delving into the possibility that his friend might be right. Actually, his mind was darting about like a frightened rabbit, terrified it was about to be caught. He swallowed.

“Okay. You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

Rossi shook his head. “Nope. I like you too much to back off, my friend.”

Hotch’s eyes dropped again. “Okay. Okay.” It was almost a whisper. “Dave, if Haley knew how often I wanted to cry, she’d probably leave me.”

The edge was gone from Rossi’s voice; only compassion remained. “So you’re afraid of letting people get too close, because it means they’ll desert you if they get to know you. That it?”

Hotch gave a small, miserable nod.

“Aw, Aaron. How do I get through to you?” The older agent scooted his chair closer. “The only way people will _stay_ , is if you let them see the real you.”

Hotch refused eye contact. “I wish I could believe that, but…”

“But what? Have you ever tried it? Letting people in?”

Aaron nodded. “You’re in.” One side of his lips quirked upward in a mirthless grimace. “Not pretty, is it...”

Rossi reached across the table. “And yet, I’m still here.”

 


	55. Sea Gulls

The atmosphere of the cheery, little coffee shop didn’t feel right for the continuation of what Rossi thought might turn into an in-depth investigation of Aaron’s self-image.

Having broken through the crust surrounding it, Dave wanted to dig deeper; wanted to explore the warped logic Hotch applied to himself. And he wanted the man to feel free to lash out, or shout. If the secret compartment inside Aaron was going to pop open, Rossi wanted whatever emerged to have free rein. It would be counterproductive to bring demons to the surface only to have Hotch clamp down on them because he was in a too-public place. _And he might consider even one person within hearing as ‘too public.’_ Rossi kept his poker face foremost. He still thought Hotch might be a flight risk if he scented someone…even his best friend…getting too close.

It was mind-boggling to the older man that Hotch could be so good at his job, so perceptive, and have missed the mark on analyzing himself by such a tremendous amount. He paid for his coffee, leaving half of it in the cup, destined to melt into syrupy anonymity.

“C’mon, Aaron. Let’s go.”

Hotch sighed. “Yeah, I should be getting back. Shouldn’t have left like that. Haley’s probably worried.”

“You’re not going home yet.”

Hotch stood, straightening his jacket, patting his pockets until he found his phone. Pulling it out, he checked for any messages. “Yeah, I am.”

“No.” Rossi took hold of Hotch’s arm just above the elbow, steering him toward the door. “Call Haley and tell her…” Shaking his head, he rubbed a hand over his face. “If I need to tell you what to say to your own wife, you’re in worse shape than either of us thought.”

Hotch blinked as he was pushed out onto the sidewalk. “What’s going on, Dave? Where do you think you’re taking me?”

To passersby it was clear the two men standing face to face were having a serious conversation.

“Look, Aaron…you’ve had a really lousy time lately…”

“Ya think?”

“Listen to me. Please. Don’t start throwing up roadblocks and looking for places to run.”

“Dave, I’m fine.”

“Shhhhh…” Rossi put up both hands. There was no mistaking the gesture. _Halt! Stop where you are!_ “I keep needing to say the same things to you; lead you down the same paths; watch you use the same evasive maneuvers. I’m getting a little worried that you’re never going to get past the stumbling blocks in your own head.”

Hotch’s only response was silence accompanied by a borderline glare, so Rossi continued. “I’d really like to take you somewhere where we could talk uninterrupted. Can you do that for someone who only wants to help? Can you take a chance that you might learn something or at least shift around some of those internal stumbling blocks and maybe…oh, I dunno…build a nice, little fort with them instead of a blockade that keeps people out?”

Hotch studied his best friend’s face, reading only an earnest desire to help. He didn’t think he needed that much help. He just got confused and sad sometimes. Anyone looking at him would think he was doing fine, wouldn’t they? He had the career, the wife, the home…and maybe in the near future a child. Wasn’t that the life everyone was supposed to strive toward? But even as Hotch enumerated his blessings, he had to admit…but only to himself…that there was an empty ache inside where he supposed there should be joy, or at least contentment.

“Okay. You win.” Turning his back for privacy, Hotch placed a call and brought his phone up to his ear.

“It’s me...Yeah, I’m fine, but…No, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have walked out like that. I promise I’ll make it up to you…Yeah, we still need to talk about a lot of stuff, but…” A prolonged silence told Rossi Haley had her share of things to say to her husband. He was encouraged, though, because the tone he discerned was conciliatory. Then again, he was _dis_ couraged because that might indicate the Hotchners were sweeping things under the rug, refusing to deal with any overt ugliness in their relationship. Then the tone changed within seconds…

“I’ll be home in a little while. Dave’s with me and…” The buzz of Haley’s voice rose in volume. Rossi couldn’t make out words, but, judging by the expression on Hotch’s face and the sharp quality of the sounds issuing from his phone, the Mrs. wasn’t pleased her man was choosing to spend time with someone else when she was waiting for him at home.

Or maybe it was with whom he was choosing to spend it.

For a moment Rossi thought Haley would get her way. Hotch’s posture slumped; even seen from the back, he looked _lesser_ than when he’d begun the conversation. But then the shoulders straightened and the voice, although lowered, took on an edge. Not precisely anger; more like indignation.

“Are you forgetting where this whole thing started, Haley? I’ll be home in a little while. We’ll talk then.” After a few beats, Hotch’s voice softened. “I love you…See you soon.” He ended the call, slipping the phone back into a jacket pocket and giving Rossi a furtive glance as he did so.

The older man didn’t try to pretend he hadn’t heard. “That didn’t sound too bad, but…” He raised his brows, inviting information, yet not demanding it.

Hotch shrugged one shoulder. “She wanted me to come home.” When Rossi’s expression didn’t change… “And when I mentioned your name she said she felt as though I run off to you, or the team, to talk about things that should be kept between us; her and me.”

“I see. I take it you pointed out the irony of that comment to her.”

Hotch nodded. “Yeah.” He gave Rossi a mournful look. “I’m trying to understand her, but…” He trailed off, ending with a frustrated grimace.

“But she’s operating with a whole separate set of rules, right?” Rossi grinned. “After three failed marriages, I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s a woman-thing. Never did find a set of instructions or a map or an owner’s manual that would help me through.”

Despite the levity, Hotch’s attention was caught. “So how’d you manage?”

“Divorce.” Rossi didn’t like admitting his defeats, but he’d come to accept them, believing it was a healthier route than beating himself up in trying to understand the incomprehensible depths of the women he’d married. Or at least what they became when a husband like him entered the equation.

He saw a combination of fear and sorrow cross Hotch’s features, and thought he understood why. “Divorce is where _I_ ended up. It doesn’t have to be that way for _you_. In fact…” Rossi’s words had an undertone of wistfulness about them. “…I’d like to see you succeed where I failed. I’m hoping you’ll trust an old friend enough to let him help; let him in enough to try.”

“I told you, Dave. You’re already in.”

“Good. I’m glad…and honored.” He nodded toward his stately BMW parked halfway down the block. “Now, let’s go somewhere and talk.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

 Haley’s lips pressed into a grim line as she narrowed her eyes at her phone.

_How can he be upset with **me** when he’s probably telling Dave all about our private life right now? Not fair._

Haley had never experienced a friendship that didn’t include an element of competition. There had always been undercurrents of one-upmanship, like the faint sound of nails scraping across a chalkboard barely discernible beneath a melody. More than once she’d viewed Aaron’s trusting nature as a potential liability when it came to his teammates.

_Letting people, especially people you work with, know too much about you is like handing them a weapon. Any one of those ‘friends’ could decide they want to move up the corporate ladder and I bet they’d have all kinds of ammunition to use against Aaron. All it takes is a few rumors loosely based on fact to undermine someone._

It was a tactic Haley had employed to successful conclusion a number of times in her school days. She hadn’t had much opportunity to use it since marrying. She didn’t have any real friends, especially since she preferred devoting her time to creating an enviably perfect domestic life.

She was sure that once she became a mother, social venues would open up. She’d connect with other young wives and mothers. That’s when all the hard work building a beautiful home with a beautiful husband would pay off. She’d gather the envious glances and jealous jibes like trophies. It was a harvest Haley looked forward to with increasing impatience.

Which brought her back to square one.

Getting pregnant.

She needed Aaron for that, and where was he? Off somewhere with David Rossi.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“And we came here, because…why?”

“Because I like it. There’s no noise except wind and water and the sea gulls. A man can breathe here.” Rossi inspected his friend via a sidelong glance. “And I suspect you could use some air and the chance to exhale.”

They were standing on an outcropping overlooking the Potomac. Hotch had been quiet on the drive out; his mind occupied with what was waiting for him at home. Rossi stood back a few paces, watching some of the stress in the younger man dissipate. Hotch’s shoulders un-tensed. His neck seemed to elongate, abandoning the slight, forward jut that could signal either aggression or defensiveness. After a few minutes gazing out at the ruffled waters, watching gulls wheel, Rossi saw what he’d hoped for: a deep, cleansing breath that carried away the last vestiges of anxiety.

_But the causes, the roots, are still there. That’s what I need to explore in him._

Hotch watched the endless, flowing waters. He let the movement mesmerize him. “You’re right, Dave. This is a nice place.” He sighed. “But I don’t feel like being psychoanalyzed. I can work stuff out on my own.” He followed up with an apologetic glance. “I know you mean well. And I trust you, but…”

“But you don’t want to let people in. Not really. I get it.”

“No! I…I…” Hotch gave a small shudder. “Can’t we just enjoy this place instead of profiling me?”

“Sure. Sure.” Rossi turned his attention to the landscape, standing shoulder to shoulder with his friend. But both knew he wasn’t going to let his purpose in bringing Hotch out here drift away so easily. He waited until he felt an easy rhythm reassert itself in Hotch’s breathing pattern.

“I like this place, because it reminds me of things that are easy to forget, Aaron.” Rossi took lack of response as permission to continue. “There’s all kinds of stuff affecting how that water flows. So many obstacles and impediments, but in the end it reaches its goal. The sea. I like that. It reminds me to stop struggling and try to see the outcome. That kind of shift in attitude helps make the journey easier.”

He heard Hotch take, and release, a deep breath. “Dave, I know what you’re trying to say, but you can’t always be so lax about things when they hurt.”

Rossi kept his voice low and quiet. He tried to think of lulling information out of his companion, rather than mining for it. “What hurts you, Aaron?”

Enough time lapsed for Dave to think Hotch was ignoring the question. But finally he got what he wanted: an answer that might lead to unexplored territory inside the psyche of Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief extraordinaire.

“Lots of things. People. But mostly failure. Failure is…” Another deep sigh served as punctuation. “Failure is the worst…”

Rossi placed a tentative hand on Hotch’s back, letting it rest lightly.

Enough pressure so he’d know he wasn’t alone. But not enough to send him back into hiding.


	56. Bird Snare

Rossi kept as still as he could.

He realized he was holding his breath and was amused at his own reaction to finally getting something out of Hotch that wasn’t elusive or deflecting, but came from a deep, protected place. Rossi stood stock-still, focusing on his companion out of the corner of his eye; hand maintaining light pressure on Hotch’s back. It didn’t seem as though anything more would be forthcoming after the admission that failure was a pretty scary thing in Aaron-world. Rossi tried to keep his voice as unobtrusive as his stance and his touch.

“Failure is how we learn things. Trial and error. You know that.”

Hotch’s eyes never left the scene before and below them; the river, the birds, the trees. “I know. But failure hurts. You asked me what hurts. Failure does.”

“You say that like someone who’s intimately acquainted with it; with failing.” Hotch nodded , but didn’t elaborate. Rossi nudged just a little. “What do you think you’ve failed at? Can you tell me?”

Another slow nod as Hotch chewed on his bottom lip for a brief moment. But then he said, “I don’t like to talk about it.”

“No one likes to talk about their failures, Aaron. I’m guessing you don’t see yourself the way others do. The thing is, from where I stand…from where the team stands…you look like a pretty successful guy.”

When Hotch turned from the view, giving his attention to Rossi, the older man felt concern for the depth of sadness in the brown eyes searching his own.

“I don’t see how that’s possible, Dave.” He went back to gazing out over the water. “And I _know_ Haley doesn’t see me that way.”

The bottom dropped out of Rossi’s stomach. Hotch was considered one of the brightest agents at the Bureau. The Director himself had commented on the man’s enviable track record for solving cases, even alluding to the fact that when _his_ time came to step down, he’d be able to do so with an easier mind and a lighter heart knowing the next generation had an Agent Hotchner in it. And even though he didn’t know Haley that well, Rossi was sure she was the type of woman who would never ask someone she didn’t admire to father her children.

 _So thinking he’s a failure is his own judgment…or the judgment of someone who had a powerful effect on him in his formative years._ Rossi grimaced. _And I can guess who that might be. Poor kid. But…_

“What makes you think Haley considers you a failure?”

Hotch shrugged. “I can’t seem to meet her expectations. I never seem to do what she wants.”

“L-i-k-e?”

“Like not going home when she asked me to.” Hotch looked down at the ground, scuffing at pebbles with the toe of one sneaker. His voice lowered, dripping with shame. “I mean, she even felt she had to go to you guys to help me get her pregnant.” His voice descended even more. “That’s pretty bad.”

Rossi’s heart joined his stomach, plunging downward. He turned, reaching out to take Hotch’s shoulders and bring him around so they were face to face. “Look, I’m not happy about the way things turned out on that score, but you need to know your wife didn’t think you needed ‘help’ in that department. I can only speak for my part in that whole…” He gave his head a small, disgusted shake. “…mess. But Haley was reacting to your getting hurt on the job a couple of times. Had nothing to do with your virility, or…or your desire, or…your attractiveness, or sex appeal. Nothing! It had to do with on-the-job injuries. That’s all. If she objects to anything, it’s probably that you’re in a dangerous line of work.”

Rossi would have continued, but something in the way Hotch was looking at him dried up any other arguments he might have set forth. Faltering to a stop, he tilted his head, an inquisitive look inviting response.

“Dave, last night when I got home Haley asked me if we have a girl, if I’d like to name her after Angie Sachs.” Hotch could see the brief flare of surprise in the older man’s eyes. “Was that your doing? Did you talk to her about that case?”

Releasing the shoulders through which he’d been trying to convey comfort by a gentle touch, Rossi took a step back. “I did. I told her that little girl was still in your heart and you needed to release her before you’d be able to move on in the parenthood arena.” He shook his head. “I was hoping Haley’d find a way to open you up a little…let some of the sorrow out. It never crossed my mind that she’d approach it _that_ way.”

“Well, she did.” Hotch turned away, looking out at the scenery once again. “It hurt, too. And that’s my marriage. What goes on between me and Haley is private. You shouldn’t have butted in.”

Rossi felt a small spark of anger for his intentions being so poorly translated into action by Haley, and for being misconstrued by Aaron.

“Hotch, it _is_ your personal business and I apologize if I intruded too deeply, but marriages aren’t islands with just two people on them. Your friends, your supporters in all walks of your life…personal, professional, recreational…they’re the ones you can turn to when you hit a rough patch. You don’t have to put everything on display, or even let them know there’s a problem, but those people are resources that can help you through hard times. Don’t shut all that potential aid out in the name of privacy.”

Rossi closed his eyes for a moment. _Things are getting too scattered. We’re going off on too many tangents. He’s probably not even aware that this is another escape tactic. It’s so ingrained in him, he can’t even see it. Automatic evasion._

Determined to get back on track and follow at least one path to its conclusion, Rossi resumed standing shoulder to shoulder with his troubled friend. “Hotch, I understand why the Sachs case lodged in you. She called you ‘Daddy’ with her last breath. I know how that must have hit you hard when you’re looking fatherhood in the eye for the first time. But it’s not fair to Haley or to yourself, if you let that dictate your own life decisions. You have to make those based on what _you_ want, independent of the cases we work on.”

Rossi glanced at the face of the man beside him…and then he stared at it. There was a qualitative difference in expression that he was hard-pressed to describe. Something in the way the eyes darted; in the tiny lines that were a little too taut. Something… And then he had it. _Panic! If I haven’t hit whatever ails him on the head, then I’m damn close to doing just that._ He swallowed, reminding himself to proceed with caution.

“But I still don’t understand why you think you’ve failed at something when all any of us intended was to offer help. As a kindness; not because you needed it,” he hastened to add. Rossi’s sigh was born of regret crossed with amusement. “And try as we might, we ended up creating more obstacles than we circumvented.” He cast a sly eye at Hotch’s profile. “Any failure you’ve encountered lately is directly attributable to our help, you know.”

Aaron still had that unsettling look as he continued to stare at the view. Rossi didn’t think he was seeing it, though. Some inner vision had claimed the man’s attention, imposing itself between him and the soothing landscape. “Hotch, I’m sorry. We all are. Especially if we’ve made you feel _lacking_ , or _lesser_ in some way, but…”

“Not that.” The quiet words cut across Rossi’s speech like a guillotine. “I’ve never been able to get it right, Dave. As hard as I try, I’ve never been able to meet expectations. Never been good enough.”

The soft admission tore at Rossi’s heart. All humor drained from him at the hollow sound of Hotch’s words. _He’s felt this way for a lot longer than he’s been with the Bureau. ‘Never’ is a very long road, and usually starts in youth. And usually ends in despair. A lifetime of it._ Rossi’s lips pressed together in a tense, bloodless line. _There’s no easy solution. If I’m really his friend, I’m going to have to take on the whole blasted mess of him and keep nudging and steering and pushing every time he looks back over his shoulder toward his childhood. Damn. He deserves better. But…_ Rossi shrugged at the unfairness of life and quietly shouldered the burden of Hotch for the rest of his.

“You can’t escape where and who you came from, Aaron. None of us can. You’re too smart to let past pain dictate your future.”

“I know, but…” Hotch’s voice was tight and low with the ache of remembrance as well as the unease of allowing someone access to that guarded part of him that Rossi termed a ‘secret compartment.’

“But what the intellect accepts, the heart rejects. That it?”

Hotch nodded, grateful for Rossi’s depth of compassion. The older man gave a deep sigh, draping an arm across his friend’s shoulders. “So where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll be watching you like a hawk for those times you punish yourself for not being perfect, or accept the punishment of others because you think you deserve it.” Rossi gave Hotch a friendly shake. “And you’re going to have to realize that when people try to participate in your life, it’s because they like you. They’re offering a gift, not a judgment, Aaron.”

“It felt more like I was being tricked than helped.”

“Yeah…well…” Rossi turned his regard toward the ceaseless Potomac. “We screwed up. We’re sorry. We’re not perfect…and you don’t have to be.”

Finally, Hotch looked at him. “It still hurts.”

“I know. It’ll fade. The important thing right now is for you to accept and understand that we’re all behind you to support you…even if sometimes if feels like we’re sneaking up and pouncing on you.”

Hotch’s lips twitched enough to let Rossi know he’d try to take a lighter view of the last few months. Or at least the team’s participation in them, but it would take time for such a private man to regain his sense of trust and unity with his co-workers.

_Now if he can just do the same with his wife, maybe we can all move on. In time, anyway._

Almost at the moment the thought crossed Rossi’s mind, Hotch turned away from the pastoral view.

“I should get home, Dave. Haley’s waiting.”


	57. Feathers in the Wind

Rossi pulled up to the curb in front of Hotch’s house.

When his passenger made no move to exit, he cut the engine. Both men sat in silence. The older one broke it first.

“Are you gonna be okay?”

Hotch nodded, eyes distant as he gazed at the tree-lined street beyond the windshield. “Sure.”

“Are _we_ gonna be okay?”

The Unit Chief surfaced from whatever was claiming his attention long enough to spare his friend a glance. “Yeah. I think so.”

Rossi twisted in his seat, leaning his back against the doorframe as he stroked his beard, studying Hotch through narrowed lids. “I hate to come off as needy, but that didn’t sound very convincing.”

“What?” Hotch blinked, realizing something more than an unthinking, rote response would be welcome at this juncture. He pulled in a deep breath and turned in his seat to face the other man. “Sorry, Dave. My mind’s somewhere else.” He couldn’t help glancing back toward his house. He wasn’t sure, but the drapes might have twitched. _Haley’s waiting for me to come in._

Rossi leaned over, tapping a finger against Hotch’s forehead, eliciting a wince. “What’s going on in there? And ‘nothing’ is not an acceptable response.”

“I’m okay. I just have a lot to think about and…” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished and Rossi unsatisfied.

With an air of long-suffering patience, Dave leaned in again, this time tapping a finger against Hotch’s chest; right over his heart. “Then tell me what’s going on in _there_. No thinking. Just blurt it out. Now.”

“I’m scared.”

Concern was foremost in Rossi’s eyes; Hotch’s dropped to the plush floor mats of the BMW. The older man frowned, reading the younger, grasping at every nuance, every clue available. “We’re back at the beginning, aren’t we, Aaron…You’re afraid you’re failing. Failing hurts and you don’t want to get hurt any more. That it?”

The slow, miserable nod tugged at Rossi’s heart, but as much as he wanted to console Hotch with a touch, or review the ground they’d already gone over and over about the nature of perfection; how it carried the certainty of failure within it; how its cruelty was that it masqueraded behind a seemingly desirable, but ultimately unattainable facade…he knew the only remedy that mattered would have to come from Hotch himself.

_But somewhere inside him, where someone should have erected signposts pointing toward self-acceptance and happiness, they substituted blockades and warped, funhouse mirrors. No one gave this man the tools to build a happy life._

Keeping quiet, not reaching out to a friend in pain, was one of the hardest things Rossi had ever done. He drew comfort from thinking that his solid, reliable presence…his refusal to gloss over or to leave…was something Hotch could appreciate. _But he has to find at least the beginning of a solution inside himself. That’s the only way he can win._

The silence went on too long. Rossi cracked. When he broke into Hotch’s thoughts, it was with a matter-of-fact tone and a comparison he hoped would stick with his damaged friend longer than hugs and reassurances.

“Okay, Aaron. This is the bottom line. You’re like an addict. You’re traveling the same rough road a child born with substance dependency faces.” The surprise that registered on Hotch’s face was preferable to the misery it supplanted, but still not how Rossi wanted to leave him. The older man forged ahead with his analogy.

“When a baby is born of addictive parents and has the crappy luck to be starting out with that strike against him, it’s something he’ll be fighting for the rest of his life. It’s different from true addiction; there’s no craving. But the need is still there. The way I see it, you got hurt so early in life and so consistently, it elicits the same behavioral patterns.”

This was something Hotch didn’t want to hear. But it was also something he could latch onto. It smacked of the information they studied as the basis for profiling. The surprised tilt to his eyes eased. Rossi could see he was willing to consider there might be some truth in the allegation.

“The substance that calls to you, Aaron, is psychological, not pharmaceutical. You’re going to be fighting the belief that you don’t measure up to some unreachable yardstick for the rest of your life. You’re going to keep returning to the idea that you’re not good enough like a boomerang. I want you to think about that. I also want you to realize that one of the most effective weapons against dependency is a support group. And you’ve got one of the best ready-made, standing by…”

Having made his point, and feeling that it had hit home, Rossi relaxed, exhaling. He saw familiar signs in Hotch. Earmarks that said the man was, if not happy, at least receptive.

Rossi saw a movement in the front window. _Haley’s watching._

“I don’t have all the answers, but maybe if you can find a way to suspend your self-judgment when you think you’re failing…for a split second…and take a reading on how members of your support group weigh in on whatever the issue at hand, it might give that harsh opinion you have of yourself a more realistic slant.”

Hotch’s sigh was weary; his brief smile mirthless. “I get what you’re saying. You’re a good friend, Dave.”

But privately, alongside the truth he heard in Rossi’s words, Hotch was taking away something quite different. _Damaged almost from birth. Something I’ll have to fight and guard against the rest of my life. That’s how people see me. Emotionally handicapped._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley had spent her time alone brooding.

Her moment of self-doubt had been terrifying, but it had melted like the sugar egg of her childhood when exposed to the heat of her conviction that she _had_ to be right. It was unthinkable that her life plan, and the strategies she’d used to achieve it, were faulty. _I mean…just look where it’s taken me!_

A small, honest part of her whispered that she was too scared to admit she might have built her life out of all the wrong parts. Before she quelled it, the little voice added that maybe she was too lazy to accept blame and start over from scratch.

But when Haley took a steadying breath and looked around her, she knew there was no way following the wrong path would have netted her such a lovely home and such a beautiful husband. She had to be doing something right to have come this far and to have achieved such an enviable position.

The point where doubt had entered was the conversation leading up to Aaron’s walking out. He’d done so not in anger, but from a need to sort through his thoughts and feelings. That was troublesome in itself. Haley would prefer straight-up rage. It was identifiable and could be handled if she met it with soft, yielding, persistently sweet resistance; something at which she was an expert. She’d convinced herself that her husband’s departure was more a need to explore her tactics of the last few months. She was sure he’d realize they were well-intentioned and would have been happily effective if not for the interference of certain team members.

But the subsequent phone call during which Aaron had revealed that he was with Rossi and had refused outright to come home nibbled at the confidence she’d worked hard to regain. He was choosing Dave over her. She fumed, tidying a house that didn’t need it and keeping sporadic watch for her husband’s return.

It didn’t bode well when Rossi’s opulent car pulled up.

It was even worse when Aaron didn’t emerge right away.

Peering around the edge of the heavy drapes masking the front windows, Haley watched the two men. When she thought they’d been taking their leave of each other long enough, she gave the fabric an impatient twitch. When they still didn’t move, the twitch became a yank.

Her actions brought back memories of when she’d first begun dating Aaron. When her mother would keep vigilant watch for her daughter's return.

Her parents hadn’t approved of the Hotchner family; the powerful attorney father and the socially reticent mother. And even though Aaron himself had done nothing to deserve objection, Haley knew her own father regarded him with suspicion. As far as Mr. Brooks was concerned, the boy was too handsome not to be aware of the effect he had on girls. Her father ground his teeth and imagined his fragile, pretty daughter fending off the Hotchner boy’s advances.

Haley smiled. If only Daddy had known that the roles were reversed. Shy Aaron viewed himself from a perspective Haley still couldn’t grasp. He had seemed stunned to learn that there was a female in the world who found him acceptable. Teenaged Haley had smirked, congratulating herself on being tigress enough to take her prey down before he realized the bevy of girls watching and giggling were only waiting for him to make the first move. Any one of them would have been proud to be tied to the eldest Hotchner boy.

Young Aaron had been so grateful for feminine approval, it had nearly paralyzed him. He’d been afraid to be the aggressor because, if he blew this opportunity, he might never have the chance again. Maybe no other girl would want him.

Now, Haley’s smile widened. She shook her head in fond remembrance of how she’d laid siege to the boy she’d desired. How she’d let him think he was in control of the relationship even as she steered it gently, firmly, inevitably toward the altar.

 _And I still have that power. He’s not a naïve boy anymore, but then, I’m not a naïve girl either._ She felt her smile grow wicked. _I don’t think I ever was. Young, yes. Naïve…no. At least, not when it comes to getting what I want, or who I want. And things haven’t changed that much. Whatever hold Dave or anyone on that team has over him, I’m the one in his bed and at his side for the private moments of his life._ Her eyes narrowed with a feline glint as she saw the passenger side door open and Aaron finally emerge. _I’ll find out whatever Dave’s been telling him and I’ll smooth things over. Maybe that’s what Dave meant when he said to give Aaron a safe place. Y-e-s-s-s, a place where he doesn’t have to deal with conflict. That’s what a safe place is._ She nodded as Aaron walked up the steps.

_Yes, I can do that. Just leave everything to me, Aaron. I’ll guard you and keep you safe._


	58. Sitting Pigeon

Before Hotch could turn the knob on his front door, it opened, revealing a Haley he hadn’t seen in years. Tremulous. Tearful. Almost worshipful.

It was the girl who’d first captivated him, making him feel braver, surer… _better_ …than he ever thought he could be. It was the girl whom he’d sought out as an escape from the aftereffects of the father who shattered him and the mother who didn’t protect him. True, it was an older version, but in expression and attitude, Hotch’s memory saw the woman who’d made him feel important, worthy of being desired. His breath caught as he realized once again the debt he owed her.

_If I hadn’t found Haley, I might have given up. Having her meant I had someone to work for, someone I could try to make a worthy life for. The only person who wanted me._

He swallowed as she stepped close…closer…slid her hands inside his jacket and took control of him, fingers smoothing and soothing the tension out of his ribs and chest and shoulders.

“Aaron. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

His eyes widened. And guilt came crashing down. _What have I done, or **not** done, to make her feel so insecure? _ “Haley, I’ll always come back to you. You _know_ that.”

She pulled him the rest of the way in, pushing the door shut behind him, making sure he had a view of the little, hall table with its lust-inflicted balance problem; a reminder of the pleasurable surprises she could provide. Once inside, and out of Rossi’s sight, she pushed Hotch up against the wall, sandwiching him between it and her body. A vagrant thought that she owed this maneuver to one of Penelope’s DVDs was discarded with quick decisiveness. _It’s **my** move now…_

“But you were upset when you left. And then when you phoned and didn’t want to come home…because _I’m_ here…” Her freshly-glossed lips trembled. Hotch couldn’t tear his eyes from them. When they touched his chest, dead center…that special spot…his eyes finally closed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi sat outside the Hotchner household, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

He’d seen the door open as soon as Hotch had reached for it. He’d noted the slight, stumbling steps as he entered, indicating he was being physically drawn forward. But what really troubled Rossi came before that. The movement behind the drapes as he and Hotch had been talking was disturbing to his profiler’s sensibilities.

The tugging and twitching had struck him as a demonstration of frustration as well as a signal. Haley had known her motions would be visible. She was calling her husband in; telling him he’d been gone long enough, and in Rossi’s presence long enough. It was her turn now. He’d also read in the gesture that if Hotch didn’t concede to Haley’s wishes, he risked her anger. Her frustration would boil over. He doubted the Hotchners would ever engage in a screaming match…although sometimes he wished they _would_ lay everything out on the table that way…but he could see Haley venting her displeasure in small, hurtful, snubbing ways.

It was very subtle, emotional manipulation. It was also the kind that took years to develop. Rossi wanted to believe that there were also communiques of affection and comfort; the kind every married couple created if they were together long enough; the kind that made it seem as though husband and wife could speak volumes with a touch, a glance from across a crowded room. But…

Rossi drummed his fingers.

_It’s none of my business. But…_

Hotch was in a fragile state. If Haley had come out to the car, asking after her beloved’s welfare, Rossi would have felt better about the reception she was likely giving Aaron. But…

Heaving a sigh of resignation, he got out of the car and made a slow way up the sidewalk to the front door.

_You’re a meddlesome, old busybody, Agent Rossi._

Of course, the door didn’t open before he reached it, as it had for Hotch.

And, as Rossi rang the bell, he wondered if, when it _did_ open, he’d be allowed to pass through.

_I guess it all depends on which one of them answers._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley let a small, imploring smile grace her lips in case Aaron was looking down as she ghosted them across his chest. She’d pulled the neckline of his t-shirt as low as it would stretch, granting her access to his bare flesh. When his breathing began to roughen, she risked breaking contact long enough to push his shirt up, nudging him; a silent command to take it off.

She sensed reluctance, but she was sure she could get him to obey. It would reassure her; tell her that whatever the outcome of Aaron having spent his morning with Dave, it hadn’t affected her place in his life.

 _And it’ll be so nice for him. I’ll make sure of that. Work some tension out of him. And…_ in her mind’s eye she saw the colored blocks on the bathroom calendar. _And the timing would be so right._

“Haley, we need to talk.” It sounded gravelly.

She didn’t stop caressing him. The strain in his voice told her she was winning… _would_ win, if she just continued what she was doing.

The doorbell had never sounded so harsh.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi was greeted by a slightly mussed Hotch tucking his shirt into his jeans waistband.

The older man’s brows rose. _For a couple who have a lot to work out, they sure got through it quickly._

“Dave?” Hotch’s eyes were questioning, vulnerable; open and curious. Rossi glimpsed Haley over his friend’s shoulder as she made a surreptitious attempt to wipe away smudged lipstick. The look in her eyes was quite different. Not exactly angry…or outraged...

 _Hostile_ , Rossi concluded. He had some trouble reconciling this expression with the one she’d worn when she’d enlisted his aid in pushing Hotch closer to the threshold of parenthood. He was beginning to wonder about the dynamics of communication in the Hotchner marriage. Then wonder turned to worry.

“Now, Dave, you’ve had him all morning long. Time to let someone else in.” Despite the joking words, Haley’s tone was flinty as she approached to slip a proprietary arm around Hotch’s waist, her hand toying with the recently tucked shirt, pulling it up by increments; a reminder to her husband that she intended to resume interrupted business once this unwelcome visitor was gone.

Still, Rossi managed to adopt his usual affable smile. “He’s all yours. I’m not gonna hijack him. Just need a word in private. Bureau business…if you don’t mind.” The furtive spark of suspicion in Haley’s eyes demanded more. “I promise I’ll only take him away for a minute. Promise. Boy scout’s honor.”

“Haley…” Hotch disengaged himself from her hold, stepping out the door to join Rossi. “I’ll be back in a minute. And then we really do need to _talk_.”

Her lips thinned to a bloodless line. If Rossi hadn’t barged in, she’d have Aaron panting and pliable by now. And even if it didn’t solve anything, it would make him much more amenable when they _did_ get down to brass tacks. But all was not lost. She smiled her sweetest, most dangerous smile; leaned up and nuzzled against the side of Hotch’s neck. “Don’t be too long.”

Haley stepped back, relinquishing her husband to his friend. “Nice seeing you again, Dave.” The tone made it clear to Rossi that once his business with Aaron was done, he was not expected to linger. There would be no amiable ‘Stay for dinner.’

He didn’t really want to anyway. _You have a lot of hidden qualities, Mrs. Hotchner. I’m only just beginning to see them._ “Always a pleasure, Haley.” He tilted his head toward the sidewalk. “Aaron?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch followed Rossi down the porch steps, shreds of his wife’s disapproval trailing in his wake.

“What’s going on, Dave?” Profiler that he was, the Unit Chief’s brain was still trying to recover from Haley’s lips. He wasn’t doing so well at deciphering subtext yet. A little more blood needed to return for his synapses to function with their usual acute snap and click.

Rossi hid his amusement. He wasn’t _so_ much older that he couldn’t recall how a woman could trip up the cognitive processes. He muffled the impulse to grin.

“I just wanted to be sure you know that you can call me any time, day or night, for any reason. And if you ever need breathing space, or some alone-time…” He swept his arm in an expansive gesture. “…my manse is at your disposal.” The last was said with such pomposity, Hotch couldn’t help but smile.

“Thanks. So…no Bureau business?” His brain was fully blooded again.

“The welfare of the BAU’s finest Unit Chief _is_ Bureau business.” Rossi glanced toward the front door, slightly ajar, and heaved a sigh. His voice adopted a more serious tone. “And I want to be sure you know you have a safe haven. In case you need one. Not saying you do or will, but…” He shrugged.

Hotch’s shoulders lowered, tension melting away. His eyes softened. “But you’re a good friend and you think you’re covering your bases…and mine. You don’t have anything to worry about, Dave. But,…thanks.”

Rossi gave a cockeyed grin and patted Hotch’s cheek. “Good boy.” He was both troubled and satisfied. Content that he’d interrupted, allowing Hotch the opportunity to regain his footing; hopefully enabling a discussion of substance with his wife.

But unsettled at the tactics he’d seen Haley employing.

If anyone was an apt student of feminine wiles, it was Rossi.  And what he saw now distressed him.

 _Aaron’s stuck. He’s still arrested in adolescence…clumsy and shy. And Haley is **so** advanced when it comes to sexual politics…_ Rossi felt his very soul cringe.

_Holy damn...Aaron doesn’t stand a chance._


	59. Quailed

“What was _that_ all about?” Haley took possession of Hotch’s arm as he came through the front door. She could hear the pampered purr of a well-kept engine starting, and hoped it was Rossi’s BMW taking him away.

Eyes thoughtful, Hotch shrugged one shoulder. “Just Dave worrying too much. Nothing important.”

“Good.” She took a stance in front of Hotch, running her hands up his arms, giving his biceps an appreciative squeeze in passing. “Now…where were we?” She moved in closer. “Ah, yes. I remember.” She felt a brief flare of disappointment when Hotch gripped her hands, arresting their hopeful, intimate journey.

“Haley, we have to get some things straight. And I want to do that before the phone rings and I’m gone on another case. I want to talk while things are fresh in my mind.” His faint grin was crooked and a little sheepish. “…while my mind’s still clear, you know?” He meant it as a tribute to her ability to arouse him, driving all thoughts other than those of passion from his brain.

Haley was about to argue that the possibility of his office calling was why they _should_ make good use of their time while it coincided with her fertility, but the look in Hotch’s eyes stopped her. Such a peculiar combination of wariness and sorrow; it made her shoulders slump. She accepted the inevitable.

“Of course we can talk, sweetheart.” She pulled him to the living room couch, snuggling up close when he sat down.

Hotch was still digging himself out of the shock and hurt of learning his wife and teammates had plotted behind his back. Haley’s thoughts were in an entirely different arena. She saw Rossi’s repeated presence as either a threat or an opportunity. Clever tigress opted for opportunity.

_Dave learns more about Aaron every time they’re together. And what they say is true: knowledge is power. I have to be the one who knows my husband best. Or **any** of those people he works with could take him away…just because they’d know how._

“Aaron, sweetheart…” She kept her touches light; not the demanding pressure of sensuality. Rather, gentle coaxing. “…how come you never talk about Bluefields? We both grew up there.” She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling tension invade his muscles. “It would be kind of fun to reminisce every once in a while, but you never want to. Why?”

Haley was also aware that if the subject matter revolved around Aaron’s past, her part in what he saw as the betrayal of the last few months would be kept safely at bay; in an orbital position rather than a central one.

She heard his audible swallow. “That’s not what I want to talk about, Haley.” Even without looking, she could almost feel his frown. “Why would you ask that anyway?”

She turned her head into his pectoral muscle, dropping a light kiss against the fabric of the shirt she’d hoped to have off him by now. “Sweetheart, you won’t share your work with me. If you keep blocking off more areas of your life, sooner or later there won’t be room for me in it at all.” Craning her neck up and around, she looked him full in the eyes.

The thought of life without this beautiful man, of losing him to someone else with whom he shared more, produced genuine tears. Haley hated to lose. It made her angry when it happened. And if, rather than from sorrow or remorse, her tears were from frustrated anger at the possibility of being defeated by the likes of David Rossi or that Prentiss woman, or _any_ of the other people who owned bits of Aaron, they looked just as sincere.

“I don’t want to lose you, sweetheart. I can’t.”

Hotch saw the shimmer in his wife’s eyes. He heard the honest sentiment in her words, and felt the discussion he’d planned to have slip from his control. But this was important. It was the second time this afternoon Haley’d made mention of how uncertain she was of him.

Hotch steadied her shoulders, keeping her face to face. “Haley…honey…I’m not going anywhere. What makes you think you’re losing me?”

She blinked, striving to look tearfully brave…something that brought out the protective male in Aaron… but secretly she was elated that it looked as though her efforts to steer subject matter would be successful. “You don’t let me in. I keep trying and trying, but…” She dropped her gaze, giving a dainty sniffle.

“Awwww…Haley…” Strong arms cinched her in closer.

_Score!_

She nuzzled into his chest, brushing ever so lightly against the bony center, feeling the knots of tension dissolve throughout his body. Haley allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sensation. This was how she liked him best. She felt safe and protected in his arms, but able to control him. It reminded her for an instant of the horseback riding lessons her father had gifted her on her fourteenth birthday. A fine, big, beautiful animal responding to her touch; taking direction from the delicate orchestration of push and pull; reward and restriction. It was even better when he began to talk. She could feel the deep rumble of his voice vibrating through his chest wall. Combined with his heartbeat and the slow movement of his breathing and the male scent of him, Haley shivered with delight.

Aaron was her favorite symphony of sensations. She almost forgot to listen to what he was saying.

“Haley, I _want_ to share everything with you, but you have to understand…it’s the nature of the job that I _can’t_. It’s not that I don’t _want_ to. And, yes, some of the stuff you think I’m keeping from you, I _don’t_ want entering our home at all. It’s too terrible. Too nightmarish. There are things that are so awful, I wish I could keep the rest of the world from ever knowing…” She felt his lips rest against her hair for a moment. “…but especially you. I don’t want you touched by any of…of… _that_.”

Haley saw the conversation like a roadmap. And she knew just where to insert the detour to distance them from discussing the unfortunate effects of Operation Ovulation.

“Alright…alright…but, if you can’t talk about _that_ , then what about where we grew up…?” She raised her head, twisting to search his deep, warm eyes. “Will you share _that_ with me?” Her expression grew mournful. “You can’t lock me out of so much of your life, Aaron. I understand the nightmarish part you’d rather keep secret, but what about Bluefie…” The name of their hometown died on her lips before the dreadful, frozen quality that crept over Hotch’s elegant features.

And finally Haley got a clue about her husband’s past.

 _Oh, God. That was a nightmare, too…_ But her next breath brought a thought that disturbed her even more. _Still, I bet Dave knows alllll about it. I bet he talks to Dave instead of me._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid, Prentiss, Morgan and J.J. were sardined into Garcia’s tiny apartment, sharing the limited space with the aroma of chocolate chip cookies their hostess was in the process of pulling from her oven.

Reid had folded himself into an overstuffed chair decorated with flower appliques that reminded him of the pink-and-green, giant daisies from the 1970s that his mother had once favored. He cast a hopeful eye toward the kitchen as the scent of baking grew stronger. “You know, guys, I almost hope we get a case, an urgent one, so we don’t have to, you know…look Hotch in the eye too closely on Monday.”

“Chill, Pretty Boy.” Morgan was prowling the perimeter of the living area, inspecting some of Garcia’s more quixotic possessions and nodding in satisfaction as they confirmed the profile he’d made long ago of one of his favorite people. “Hotch’s cool. Worst thing he’ll do is stare at us. It won’t hurt. Much.” He acknowledged Reid’s discomfort with a sly, sideways grin.

Garcia emerged from the kitchen bearing a platter of cookies stacked three deep, and a handful of napkins intended for crumb control. She exchanged an unhappy look with Prentiss.

“You didn’t see him when he walked in on us…well… _me_ …talking about him.” Emily sighed as she waved the cookies away. Calling up the image of Hotch’s stunned, hurt expression had destroyed her appetite. “I think we really hurt him. It was bad. Very, very bad.”

“Of course we hurt him.” J.J. took a cookie, giving it a desultory, unenthusiastic nibble. “Question is: how do we say we’re sorry? How do we explain? How do we make it right?”

Morgan stopped investigating the premises, turning to confront his colleagues. He saw guilt and concern and sadness in them. His sigh was resigned. No matter what they decided to do or say, knowing their leader was in pain and uncomfortable around them was a terrible price to pay for such well-meaning intentions. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to dredge up something hopeful. His eyes settled on Prentiss and then Garcia. “You guys said that Rossi took him over; took control, right?”

Both women nodded, but the limpid sorrow in two sets of dark eyes told Morgan they didn’t hold out much hope that Hotch’s best friend could pull a miracle out of his hat and mend things.

Garcia’s voice was small and timid. “So what do we do next?”

Morgan squared his shoulders. “We say what feels right, and we do what comes naturally. And we don’t overthink it. Because the best thing we can do for Boss-man right now is be genuine.”

He snagged a cookie from the platter, more for something to do than because he was hungry.

“‘Cause, believe me, Hotch’ll know if we’re putting on an act. In fact, I think his false-radar will be fully deployed around us for a long, long time.”

All present nodded, murmuring assent.

Reid looked up, mouth full of warm pastry peppered with gooey chocolate chips. “I still hope we get a case. An urgent one.”


	60. Mockingbird

Reid felt terrible when his wish came true.

Nothing was more urgent than a case where children’s lives were at stake.

The young agent felt a twinge of guilt when the call came through hard on the heels of his words. He hadn’t wanted harm to befall anyone. All he’d wanted was a case that would provide a diversion for any possible Hotch-confrontation. He’d hoped it would distract his boss, not sucker-punch him right in the gut, which is what cases involving children did.

Especially now. Especially when Hotch had only just become aware that his very private family-making activities were public property as far as his team was concerned.

“C’mon. Get up. Not your fault, Pretty Boy. Let’s go.” Morgan rallied the team, watching J.J. turn away from the group as she sent out detailed alerts to Rossi and Hotch. “Baby Girl, can I take some of the cookies?”

Garcia blinked from where she was struggling into her coat-of-many-colors. “Uh, sure. Yeah.”

“Not for me. For Hotch,” Morgan clarified. “Just ‘cause he knows I’m lookin’ out for him, doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop.” His cavalier, determined attitude went a long way to brightening up the others.

“Yeah.” Prentiss finally nodded, smiling. “Actually, it’ll be easier to keep Hotch in sight now that we don’t have to hide.”

J.J. rejoined the group in time to hear. “Maybe. But I sure could’ve wished for a different kind of case. Three kids missing. One found dead. Girls. Ages six to eight.” She followed the group out into the hallway, allowing Garcia to lock up. “After the last time, we’ll have to keep an eye on Hotch to make sure he doesn’t go a little crazy when we take down the unsub whenever we find him…or them…”

“…or her…” Reid added, covering all bases and making no assumptions.

“Show time.” Prentiss’ grim, mirthless words saw them out the door.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley watched Hotch’s features go icy.

Rather than deterring, the shift in his expression served to solidify her resolve to dig below the surface and see what was really beneath her husband’s handsome exterior. At first.

_I can deal with it…as long as it’s not **too** bad…_

_But what’s ‘too bad?’_ She swallowed, gazing into Hotch’s eyes, knowing they weren’t really seeing her. _Dave knows what’s under there, I bet. Maybe I should talk to him first, but… **NO**! Those people aren’t getting in any deeper than they already are. He’s mine. I’ll deal with it…whatever it is._

“Honey?” She rested a palm against his cheek. “Aaron?”

His eyes focused, but Haley couldn’t quite read what was in them. She wasn’t sure, but his bottom lip might have trembled. After studying him for a few moments, she thought she could finally put a name to the shadows deep within the brown depths.

 _Dread? It that it? Aaron’s scared to talk about Bluefields?_ She shook her head, trying to clear it. _But it’s such a small, dull town! Nothing ever happens there!_

Hotch was finally looking at her, she realized. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

He looked inestimably sad when he answered. “Why’d you ask about that? Why do you want to talk about…that place?”

Haley pitched her voice low and soothing. “Because it’s where we both came from. Why _don’t_ you want to talk about it?” She felt his intense stare; she just wasn’t sure what was behind it; what was playing through his mind. It was a moment of rare indecision for Haley. Usually she knew how to present herself for maximum effect. But this…this was unmapped territory. It disturbed her that it existed inside her husband.

She stayed snuggled against him, more to judge his reactions than to initiate any intimacies. Sometimes she found it amusing that a man who worked so hard to make his face as inscrutable as marble, betrayed his entire inner landscape via his body. Pressing a palm against his side, she felt his breathing become shallower, more rapid. His heartbeat had ratcheted up a notch, too. When he spoke again, she even detected a faint tremor run through him.

“We might have grown up in the same town, Haley, but we don’t come from the same place.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “What do you mean?”

Hotch’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Haley thought she saw the faintest sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. She was concerned for the physical toll this discussion was inflicting on her husband, but she was spurred on by the feeling that she was close to uncovering some hidden, secret knowledge that would trump anything David Rossi might have on Aaron.

Knowledge was power. It was also ammunition. And Haley intended to be well-armed if she needed to defend her ownership of this man.

But first, she needed to extract whatever information was causing such distress. Aaron’s heart thumped against his ribs. He shivered.

“Haley…I…I don’t want to…”

When his phone shrilled, it sounded even harsher to Haley than the doorbell had earlier.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch felt as though his internal organs had been put through a blender; torn and shredded and at odds; jumbled and quivering.

He’d been relieved to be called in. It saved him from the unexpected pain of having to either evade Haley’s questions, or lay at her feet all the horrors of his early life. _Here, honey…this is the mess you married…this is the loser you wouldn’t have accepted, if he’d been honest enough, strong enough to tell you who he really was…_

But when he’d received the initial details in an additional message from J.J., the bottom dropped out of Hotch’s world. It was all he could do to extricate himself from Haley, apologize, promise to make it up to her, and bolt for his car.

On the way in, driving too fast, he couldn’t help sobbing. It helped relieve the stress that he felt had been unrelenting over the last few days, and showed no sign of easing. And it encapsulated his personal feelings at having to take on another case that already boasted a dead child.

_And I have to face my team, knowing they’ve been working behind my back; ghosting along beside me when I’ve been trying to get my wife pregnant._

The combination of shame and sorrow tore at him all the way into the Bureau. It wasn’t until he was in the elevator, ascending from the garage to the BAU, that Hotch managed to stifle the surfeit of emotions, enabling him to present a brusque, business-like façade to the agents waiting for him in the conference room.

Because they loved him, they let him think that they were fooled.

Because they loved him, they pretended that they didn’t see his pain or the supreme effort he put into hiding it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley gritted her teeth as she watched her husband pull out of their driveway, tires giving a faint squeal as he sped away.

A case.

Yes, she understood.

But she also understood that there was something in Aaron’s past, in Bluefields, that she had to unearth. She hadn’t really noticed Aaron until he’d become handsome. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall him before the age of seventeen. But he had to have been around. The Hotchner family wasn’t popular, but it was a staple of Bluefields. Their name had always been present.

The only thing Haley could attest to with any certainty was that her parents hadn’t cared for Aaron’s father and mother. They’d never discussed their reasons.

She stared after the departing car taking her husband away and chewed on her lip, weighing options and possibilities.

_Clearly it’s hard for Aaron to talk about Bluefields. So if I ask around on my own, I’m not really snooping or going behind his back. I’m sparing him. And I’m finding out something that might be important. But I’ll know better once I know more._

After a thoughtful half-hour debate with herself, Haley picked up the phone.

“Mom? Hi. It’s me…No, everything’s fine, but…” She brushed away any last vestiges of doubt. “Mom, I need to know about Aaron. Did you or Dad know the Hotchners very well back when Aaron was little?”

Haley knew she was employing the same tactics that had resulted in Hotch feeling betrayed. She was enlisting outside help; involving others in what was a very private, very sensitive area for her husband.

But, as with having a child, she was positive the ends justified the means. And what Aaron didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him.


	61. Ostrich Town

Mrs. Brooks’ brow furrowed. “What are you asking, Haley?” Her voice hardened with suspicion. “Did Aaron _do_ something?”

In her mind’s eye, Hotch would always be the boy who courted her youngest daughter in the face of parental opposition; the boy she’d rather Haley had passed by, even though she had to admit that the young man had turned into a good and decent person…at least to all outward appearances. But she would always harbor a slim, secret distrust of him. Because of his parents. Because of his father.

_Because you never know when bad blood will out. You never know if the apple that fell from the tree isn’t rolling back toward the trunk._

Across the room, Haley’s father saw his wife’s expression. Lowering the Sunday paper, he observed her over the tops of his reading glasses, brows raised in inquiry. But Haley’s mother gave her head a small, quick shake, telling her husband to go back to his weekend crossword puzzle; she’d handle whatever was troubling one of their girls. He returned his attention to the newspaper, but kept an ear open. Even if this was what he’d term ‘women’s business,’ if it touched his little angel, he wanted to know. Although Mr. Brooks was certain his Haley could survive a nuclear holocaust as long as there were others around for her to make use of. She was a smart girl. A survivor. Sometimes he’d felt sorry for the Hotchner boy who probably saw only the sugar coating. But it was none of his business.

“No, Mom. I said everything’s fine. I just want to know about Aaron’s background a little more, and, you know, well…” Miles away, Haley took a breath, preparing to weave whatever tapestry was necessary to get what she wanted. “…he’s gone so often, we don’t get a chance to talk as much as we’d like. I’m just curious. Really.” But she sensed her mother’s tense concern. Deep inside, Haley responded with a cringe. Ordinarily her mother would welcome the opportunity to delve into vintage Bluefields’ society; would relish the bits of her generation’s gossip she could trot out to regale new ears that would receive her offering with satisfying gasps and riveted attention.

_There **has** to be something in Aaron’s past for Mom to sound like this!_

Mrs. Brooks hunched over the phone, turning her back on her husband; the better to shield him from her next question. “Haley, dear…did you and Aaron fight? Did he… _hurt_ you in any way?”

There was a moment of breathless shock before… “What?! No!! Mom! Why would you even _ask_ something like that?”

Thinking she was making it easier for her daughter, Haley’s mother paved the way. “Well, dear, sometimes when men get angry they might lash out at those closest to them. It’s almost like a reflex.” After a few beats when Haley didn’t respond, she resorted to a more direct approach. “Did Aaron do that? Did he lose control around you?”

Haley’s tone was the soul of steel when she finally answered. “No, Mother. My Aaron doesn’t do things like that. Why are you asking? Does it have something to do with Aaron’s past; with his life in Bluefields?” Haley was beginning to get an anxious ache in her stomach. She had a horrible premonition of what Hotch had meant about coming from a different sort of Bluefields than she had.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Once the in-flight briefing was done, Hotch moved away from the others. He wanted to use the time it took them to reach northern Minnesota, where little girls were fair game, to bury his raw emotions. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, but the maelstrom in his stomach and chest wouldn’t stop spinning. It was composed of too many elements for compartmentalizing to come easily.

The list played through Hotch’s mind.

_My team invaded my private life and kept it from me._

_My wife invited them in._

_I haven’t given Haley the baby she wants._

_She wants to talk about Bluefields._

_And someone’s killing little girls again…again…again…dear God, not again…_

Hotch struggled to imagine taking each topic, one at a time, consigning it to a lead-lined box, and burying it. Deep. He told himself he’d exhume them one by one when he had more time. He’d deal with their contents later. He was so involved in his own mental process, he startled when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

_Rossi?_

Hotch opened his eyes to Morgan’s concerned regard.

They’d spoken of nothing relating to personal issues. Hotch had powered past greetings and glances to tackle the details of the case. But he could read a combination of reprimand and worry and something so warm it might be affection in the agent’s expression. He returned the look with a scowl, signifying his lack of appreciation for being disturbed, but secretly hoping his frown would deter Morgan from saying something that would open the mental boxes he hadn’t quite closed yet.

Hotch was out of luck. Morgan wasn’t deterred.

The hand stayed on the Unit Chief’s shoulder, cradling it, signaling that it could be gentle as well as iron-clad. His other hand came forward, proffering a napkin supporting a stack of large, lumpy cookies.

“Garcia baked. Brought you some.” The napkin and its burden were deposited in front of Hotch. Morgan’s grin grew wider. “And, I’m sorry, but, hey, man…I’ve _always_ had your back. Don’t think I’m gonna stop just ‘cause you say you want privacy.”

Morgan straightened, letting his fingers knead the shoulder beneath his palm, exploring the muscles and tendons. His voice sounded thicker than normal. “And I won’t back off, Hotch. There are too few good fathers in this world. I’ve got kind of a personal stake in making sure you get to be one of them.”

Hotch’s frown eased before the emotion in his second-in-command’s eyes as they filled, but didn’t overflow.

“That’s gonna be one lucky kid.” With a final pat, Morgan turned away, heading back toward his seat, but delivering a few last words over his shoulder. “Eat the cookies, man. Otherwise Garcia’ll feel hurt. And when hurt happens, she feels it deep.” He glanced back, giving Hotch a meaningful look. “Kind of hurt that goes with having a good heart; kind of heart that makes a good Daddy.”

Hotch blinked, but when no one else reacted or even looked his way, he tasted a cookie.

It was good. He ate the whole thing while he rearranged the priorities of what he needed to bury in his collection of mental, lead-lined boxes.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley hung up the phone, a stunned glaze descending over her features.

_Aaron was abused? **Really** abused?_

She curled up on the living room couch, huddling in on herself for comfort, rearranging her perspectives on her marriage and her husband. _He was hurt? No one helped him?_

As disturbing as she found it when Hotch was injured in the line of duty, imagining him as a child, bloodied and broken, was too much. Her imagination refused to grab hold, choosing instead to scamper around inside her brain like a panicked rabbit. _Is this why he’s worried about having a baby? **Will** he be the same as his father?_

That’s where the imagination-rabbit stopped, frozen in its tracks, arrested. She couldn’t conceive of Hotch raising his voice, much less a hand in anger.

 _But he has to on the job. He **has** to. So…so…the violence is in him somewhere. Maybe he’s right to worry. But…but…he’s so sweet and gentle, even when things provoke him._ This was too important to cloud the issue. Haley had to be honest with herself. _…even when **I** provoke him. I need to talk to someone who knows him on the job…_

She gave a long, muffled wail when she realized she’d probably burned her bridges where Hotch’s team was concerned. _But maybe Dave…? Maybe?_

On the hopeful verge of motherhood, Haley felt tears tracking a molten path down her cheeks. All she wanted was her husband. She was sure if she could engulf him in her arms, smother him with what felt like boundless, pre-maternal love, she’d be able to tell how deep his childhood hurt went. And if it needed healing before he’d consent to parenthood.

Gulping back her tears, Haley rubbed both hands over her eyes. A challenge had been thrown in her path. It had shocked her, true. But she was never one to shrink from a challenge.

She glanced at the antique Seth Thomas clock her parents had given them as an anniversary present. If he could, Aaron would call before the night was over. Haley held on to the hope that he’d deny allegations of abuse. Tiny towns like Bluefields thrived on gossip. And her mother was a champ at spreading the word.

They had to be wrong.

Wrapping her arms around her drawn-up legs, Haley rested her forehead against her knees and gave vent to her fierce, tigress’ heart.

She calmed herself by envisioning ripping the throat of whoever hurt Aaron...past, present, or future... with her bare teeth; letting the hot blood of the culprit wash away the child’s wounds.

She emitted a soft growl. Her father would have recognized the sound as that of a survivor. And then, he would have backed away in the interest of self-preservation.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Elijah Wesson was captured within hours of the team’s arrival in Thief River Falls, Minnesota, the dumpsite for the six-year-old girl who had been found by hikers.

Mr. Wesson was caught when he tried to lure eight-year-old Jenny Hall into his truck.

Jenny screamed. Jenny struggled. Jenny bit.

A teenaged boy raced across the street and threw himself into the fray. Although slight of build, the boy attacked with such commitment and ferocity, the would-be abductor felt as though he were wrestling a cross between armadillo and honey-badger. The resultant noise alerted neighbors who called 911 and then ran to help subdue the stranger in their midst.

Elijah Wesson was hustled into a squad car amid a neighborhood’s outrage. The officers arresting him feared for his safety. This small, Minnesota town treasured its children and would happily have resorted to vigilante justice if this was the man who’d been preying on innocents, killing at least one.

As much as the officers sympathized, they inserted themselves between their suspect and what was rapidly becoming an angry mob.

Because there were still two little girls, fates unknown, waiting to be found.


	62. Birdshot

At the local precinct headquarters, Hotch learned to hate small, wiry Mr. Elijah Wesson.

This unsub reminded him of an educated snake, speaking in a softly, sibilant voice. Hotch and Prentiss took the lead in the interrogation room while the others observed through the standard expanse of mirrored glass. It was thought the presence of a woman might unsettle their suspect, but he gazed at both agents with reptilian calm.

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you, Agent…Hotchner… is it?”

The Unit Chief sighed, taking a moment to gather himself by concentrating on his shoes rather than the face he wished he could pummel to a bloody pulp for the tragedy it had inflicted on three families. Wesson had already confessed to taking the girls and killing one. He’d provided enough detail to convince the authorities. And he seemed inordinately proud of his accomplishment. In fact, he was rubbing this hot-shot FBI agent’s nose in it.

Hotch looked up, stoic and inscrutable, but Prentiss could feel the tension stretching him like a piano wire.

“Maybe you should _prove_ how smart you are, Mr. Wesson: tell us where Candace Sandstrom and Lilly Beryl are.” Hotch shook his head. “If no one ever sees your handiwork, no one will ever be able to appreciate it. In fact…” He raised a brow at Prentiss, inviting her to go along with the only strategy he could devise. “…we’re not even sure you had anything to do with more than that botched abduction a few hours ago.”

Prentiss snorted as only she could. “And _that_ was pretty damn dumb. I mean…here you are. Dummy.”

They’d expected the unsub to bristle, to take the bait and volunteer the information they needed to give the Sandstrom and Beryl families closure. But Wesson was eerily calm, raking Hotch’s frame up and down and up again with a smug glare. When he spoke, ignoring both agents’ comments, his voice dripped venom.

“So what’s the story with you two? Lovers? Gettin’ it on every night?” When Hotch remained silent and Prentiss rolled her eyes, Wesson revealed a little more of his twisted psyche. “I never did have much use for men like you.” His eyes seared Hotch from head to toe once more. “Think because you’re tall and can turn a lady’s eyes your way, you’re better than the rest of us? Leave the men who are smarter and better than you no choice but to take the younger ones?” He leaned toward Hotch, a smug tilt to his lips. “Ever think it’s _your_ fault things like this happen, Agent?”

Prentiss admired her boss’ control in remaining silent, but she could almost hear the damage such an accusation did to him inside. Hotch was never satisfied with his best; he always thought he could have done better. And he was, sadly, always receptive to brutal criticism. Sometimes Prentiss thought he was raised on it. She’d never reconciled that impression with the elegant figure Hotch cut that put her more in mind of a background of moneyed gentility than hard knocks.

Boss-man was an odd duck. But an effective one.

So Prentiss shrugged and accepted him. But she could feel Hotch’s reactions on a subliminal level. And she thought J.J.’s cautionary words about keeping an eye on him during this child-related case were prudent.

“You have children, Agent?” The silky, poisonous voice needled its way deeper. “Ever think that while you’re away from home someone like me might be enjoying them?”

Prentiss and every member of the team standing on the other side of the mirror felt a frisson of pride when Hotch answered with perfect calm. “ _Every_ parent worries about their children, Mr. Wesson. But Agent Prentiss called it. The way you were defeated by a little girl and a teenaged boy, you’re not one of the real threats out there. You’re more an aggravation.” Giving a deep sigh, he turned toward Prentiss. “This guy’s too dumb to have abducted three kids. He’s a liar who tells a good story. Let’s keep looking.” With a last, disgusted glance at their unsub, Hotch turned his back.

He had his hand on the doorknob when Wesson’s words stopped him.

“Alright.” There was something so satisfied and smooth in the sibilant voice, it made Hotch’s skin pebble with aversion. But there was also something wrong. Hotch knew he’d played on Wesson’s ego. He was certain Wesson knew it, too. Yet he was giving in. Something didn’t quite gel, but if the fates of the Sandstrom and Beryl children could be discovered, Hotch was willing to go along with just about anything. Even if it didn’t quite fit and raised his inner alert system to DEFCON three.

With deliberate lack of haste, Hotch turned back to confront the self-congratulatory smirk on the unsub’s face.

“A-l-l-l-right, Agent Hotchner.” Wesson couldn’t contain his merriment. It slid across his features in an oily grin. “Here’s what we’ll do…” He settled himself, slouched back in his chair, hands folded on top of his stomach. “I’ll tell you where to find the girls, if you’ll have a little talk with the State of Minnesota and make me a deal.”

Hotch regarded him with complete lack of expression. Considering the time that had elapsed since their abduction, he was certain the children were dead, but the families needed closure. Hotch’s stomach rolled. He hated bargaining when the chips on the table were corpses. He still held out hope that the dogs they’d brought in to comb the northern woodlands would find something. So…

“I don’t make deals, Mr. Wesson. But I do find victims. You don’t have anything to bargain with.”

“N-o-o-o-o…?” The unsub treated himself to a luxurious stretch before continuing. “Not even if the girls are alive? Not even if they’re so isolated that they’ll die a slow, agonizing death of dehydration and starvation if I don’t tell you where to look? Not even then? Agent…? Hotchner…?”

His name was said with such gloating contempt, Hotch felt his internal alert rise to DEFCON four. This man was caught, beaten, but his patent delight wasn’t that of someone who’d lost. With more time, Hotch thought they could figure it out. But it would have to wait. If what he said was true; if two little girls were waiting to be rescued…nothing else mattered until they were safe in the arms of their parents.

Time enough for puzzling out behavioral quirks later.

Hotch folded his arms, leveling a look of pure disgust at the man grinning up at him. “Talk. If I get the girls alive and well, I’ll see what I can do.”

Another alarm went off in his brain as Wesson asked for a map, pen and paper, saying he’d need to give detailed directions to a location so remote there were no real roads. Hotch had expected the unsub to temporize, holding out for a solid guarantee that whatever sentence he received would be commuted to something lesser. But he didn’t.

It was almost as if Wesson were eager to have Hotch find his secret bolt-hole.

 

xxxxxxx

 

_Why is it always woods, or swamps… and why always cabins or shacks or rusted out trailers…?_

Rossi and Reid had stayed behind. Hotch, Morgan and Prentiss had driven north into the rugged landscape edging the Canadian border. They were forced to abandon the Range Rover they’d been provided, going on foot with a topographical map in hand.

Standing atop a thinly forested knoll, Hotch tamped down the emotional recall roiling within him. Once Wesson had provided them with directions, the Unit Chief had been running full tilt; the memory of Angie Sachs driving him forward at breakneck speed.

He relied on Morgan and Prentiss to have his back, if it needed guarding. That included telling him to slow down when necessary. Now, both agents watched their leader, knowing the images of the past that tormented him.

Another wooded locale. Another tiny, decrepit building in the middle of nowhere. Another pair of little girls who should be jumping rope or playing hopscotch.

Wesson had told them to look for a small, prefab cube of a cabin he’d packed in over the course of months. Phone reception was spotty at best, but Garcia had been tracking them, giving as much help as she could concerning their position in relation to where the unsub had said he’d imprisoned his young victims. The light was failing, but Hotch refused to turn back. Prentiss and Morgan didn’t press the issue, but they were beginning to doubt they’d find the place before dark enveloped the land.

Then, like a pointer sighting his prey, Hotch stiffened, neck craning forward, electric energy crackling along every nerve.

“There! It’s _there_!”

Like a greyhound out of the gate, he was off.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Elijah Wesson had asked to be present at headquarters, in the company of the agents who remained behind, while the other three trekked through the wild in search of his hideaway. In fact, he’d offered to help if they kept in touch via iffy phone contact…offered to tell them to take headings on landmarks…whatever he could do to help Agent Hotchner reach his goal.

Reid and Rossi had exchanged suspicious looks, but there wasn’t any reason to deny Wesson, and if the opportunity arose where he could be of value, they wanted him present. Time was vital. They couldn’t afford to waste precious minutes if they needed to retrieve him from a holding cell and then wait for him to decide he was in the mood to be of service because they’d snubbed his initial offer.

But he was entirely too gleeful.

Reid kept a weather eye on him, while Rossi stayed in sporadic touch with Morgan.

Reception was clear enough from the top of the knoll, when Hotch sighted the only man-made structure in the area, yelling ‘It’s there!’ loud enough for both Reid and Wesson to hear, too. Rossi tensed, wondering what Aaron would find in the cabin. But his attention was diverted by Wesson’s laughter.

The man doubled over with hilarity.

Red flags rose in Rossi’s experienced mind. “Morgan, hold on! Wait just a minute!” He turned, looming over the unsub. “What’s so funny, Wesson? No matter what’s in that cabin, it’ll condemn you. There’s no deal on the table unless the girls are safe, remember? You lose unless they’re safe.”

Through snorts and eyes tearing with glee, Elijah gasped out a reply. “Ohhhh…no…Agent. I win. The cabin’s rigged with explosives. Touch the door and it’s bye-bye for anyone within ten yards of it. It’s vaporization time for your buddies!” He could barely choke out the rest before surrendering to gales of laughter. “Those girls are dead. And now, so are your friends!. I outsmarted your Special Agent Mr. Tall Man Leader. I won!”

Rossi didn’t hear the end of Wesson’s speech. He was too busy telling Morgan to stop where he was; to make sure no one touched the cabin door. He was too busy trying to give his words enough force to push through the connection and block the danger threatening his teammates.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Prentiss watched Morgan’s face go ashen.

Hotch was too far gone to catch. He was racing to save girls who weren’t there; the ghosts of all those he’d failed…but especially of little Angie…nipping at his heels, lending him almost inhuman speed as he plunged down the incline and toward the bunker-like cabin.

“HOTCH!!! _H-O-T-C-H_!!! HOTCH! STOP!! _H-O-T-C-H!!!_ ” Morgan screamed, feeling the fibers and tendons of his throat turn bloody and raw to no avail.

Hotch couldn’t hear. He was immersed in the noise of his own headlong rush. And the cries of all the children he hadn’t been able to save. _Almost there…almost…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Morgan pulled out his gun, Prentiss’ lungs froze. Derek saw her horrified eyes as he aimed down the slope.

“Derek!?!”

“Emily, he’s not gonna stop. He’s dead if he reaches the door. This is his only chance. The only way to stop him in time.”

Morgan held his breath. In the failing light he drew a bead on his rapidly-moving target, and prayed for the shot of a lifetime.

 


	63. Aflutter

After the roar of gunfire…nothing.

The sudden, explosive noise had rendered wildlife and birds mute. No chirping. No rustling in the undergrowth. Only the soughing of the rising night breeze through the branches of old-growth forest.

No sound of a man racing to the rescue.

Dead quiet.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Morgan! MORGAN!” Rossi’s entire being focused on the tenuous connection of his phone. He’d heard Derek screaming Hotch’s name, a pause, and then the tremendous blast of gunfire. Rossi’s first thought was that the cabin had indeed been mined with explosives. It had detonated. Which meant…

“MORGAN!!”

He was vaguely aware of the unsub’s renewed guffaws. He sent Reid a thunderous look. The young agent jerked his head toward Elijah Wesson, his words directed toward the officer standing by. “Get him out of here. NOW!”

As the diminutive man was hustled away, he spoke through barely controlled hilarity. “Didn’t take much to cut your man down to size, did it?” Fresh gales of laughter grew fainter as he disappeared down a hallway.

“MORGAN! Answer me! PRENTISS! ANYONE?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan’s vocal cords and throat were strained beyond use.

The thin creak that was all that remained of his voice couldn’t reach the still, dark-clad heap at the bottom of the incline, halfway to the cabin. That didn’t stop Derek from repeating Hotch’s name endlessly, like a rusty hinge, as he stumbled over his own feet in his haste to reach the man.

Momentarily stunned and deafened by the gun that had discharged inches from her ear, Prentiss blinked at the scene, chilly dread settling over her. After a moment she realized Morgan had dropped his phone. It nestled in the dried grass at her feet, transmitting Rossi’s shouted requests for someone, _any_ one to respond.

With movements made wooden from shock, Prentiss picked up the device emitting pleas as unrelenting as Morgan’s repetition of Hotch’s name.

“Rossi.” Her own voice was shaky. With fear. With horror. With disbelief. With the fervent wish that the limp form toward which Morgan ran would move.

“Prentiss! Thank God…” Rossi took a breath, trying to calm his galloping heart. “What happened? Hotch? Morgan?” Any relief he’d felt slipped away in the wake of Emily’s silence. His heart renewed its frantic pace. “Emily! What happened? Is everyone okay? Emily!”

“I…uh…uh…” Watching Morgan bend over the body, Prentiss’ eyes filled. Her throat began to close; a prelude to sobbing. But Prentiss was a pro. She dug deep. She flexed her shoulders, forcing chest muscles to loosen, forcing oxygen into her lungs, quelling the tremor in her voice.

“No, Rossi. We’re not okay. Hotch’s hurt. Shot. Don’t know how bad. We need help. Medics.”

“Shot?” For a moment it didn’t equate, but then…it did. _They shot him. To stop him. One of them shot him. Because after everything he’s been through, he’d go after those girls. He’d open that door._

To his credit, Rossi’s experience overrode his emotional reaction. He wanted to dash out of the station and run into the night, screaming his rage; certain the bond he felt with Aaron would lend him strength enough and endurance enough and direction enough to run unhindered through countless miles of rough terrain, to reach his side. But even as Rossi felt his heart begin to break, he issued instructions; concise words in a clear tone.

“Help is on the way. Do what you can. Don’t touch the cabin. Wesson said it’s rigged with explosives. We don’t know if the surrounding area might be mined, too. We’ll send a bomb squad to check it out. It’ll be dark soon. Try to get back to your vehicle. Keep one phone open at all times so we can track your location. And only one. If it runs out of power, switch to another. Got it?”

Prentiss drew additional strength from the sane sound of command. “I don’t know how bad it is, Rossi. Morgan’s with him now. I’m on a hill. If I go down, I’ll lose you. Hurry.”

“Tell me more when you can. Get moving.” Rossi bit his lower lip, letting some of his agony seep into his voice. “Emily…”

“I know, Rossi. I know.”

She left the connection open. Rossi could hear her running, stumbling, sliding, panting. And then the phone failed. He knew that meant Prentiss was with Hotch and Morgan; probably knew what he, Rossi, so desperately needed to know. _Dead or alive? How bad?_

Taking his attention away from her progress was one of the hardest things Rossi had ever had to do. But forces needed to be marshaled. He saw Reid issuing instructions, but knew it would take both of them to help this small town’s resources function with the efficiency necessary to give Hotch his best chance of survival.

 _If he hasn’t already died…_ a small, ugly voice whispered.

Rossi ignored it. It sounded like Elijah Wesson in his mind.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan lost the last of his voice whispering Hotch’s name.

When he reached the body lying face down, head turned to one side, the first thing Derek noticed was Hotch’s peaceful expression. _No. Not peaceful. A complete **lack** of expression. He’s out. Deeper than sleep. Profoundly unconscious, or…No…No…No…Please, no…_

Gasping from exertion and fear, each inhale burning his raw throat, Morgan fell to his knees beside his leader.

“Hotch? Hotch?” It was useless. The words formed in his brain; his tongue and lips executed the movements necessary for speech, but nothing audible came out.

In the failing light, color was the first visual perception to be affected. Morgan couldn’t see if the darkness of Hotch’s hair or clothing harbored bloodstains. For one wildly illogical moment he thought his shot had missed; that Hotch had fallen for some other reason. But the mind accustomed to crime scene investigation asserted itself, pushing such fantasies away. Swallowing, feeling the pain of the action in his raw throat, Morgan placed his fingers against the side of Hotch’s neck.

 _Pulse! Alive!_ He wanted to cry with relief, but clamped down on the impulse. _Rapid pulse. Too rapid. Hurt. Where did you get hit, Hotch? Oh, God…oh, God…oh, God… **I** did this…Where did I shoot you, Hotch?_ _Time enough for guilt tripping later. Move it, Morgan! Make this as right as you can…_

He started at the top, using both hands to press light, exploratory touches over the pitch-dark hair, checking for the tell-tale moisture of blood.

Morgan was an excellent marksman, but his target… _Hotch!_ he wailed in his mind…had been moving fast. A leg shot would have been best, but he couldn’t count on hitting something that small, that elusive, in the growing dusk. So he’d aimed higher. It had been a split-second decision. He’d tried to take into account that his target… _Hotch!!_ he keened…had been running downhill, but there hadn’t been time to calibrate an accurate shot. The vision of his boss and friend reaching the cabin, throwing open the door, and vanishing in a fiery blast had spurred him past all reservations. Morgan had pulled the trigger.

_And he’s alive. Hold on to that. He’s alive…_

His hand moved lower, almost caressing the dark fabric of Hotch’s jacket. Nothing wet around the shoulders. But he could smell the metallic tang of blood.

_Faster, Morgan! Don’t let him bleed out!_

He almost missed it because Hotch’s clothing had twisted around him when he’d fallen, wadding and bunching in places. But midway down Hotch’s torso, Morgan raised a darkly wet hand to his eyes, seeing the glisten of blood. Breathless, frantic, he pulled the jacket away from the right side of the body. Pulling Hotch’s shirt free of his slacks, Morgan found the wound.

Just above the waist. Probing with his fingers, Morgan was fairly certain the bullet had traveled through the flesh in a place that was one of the few that missed vital organs. But there was a lot of blood. _Or maybe panic and guilt are getting to you…making it seem worse…_ He concentrated on turning Hotch over, checking the front of him for an exit wound. _You shot him in the back!!_...

“Morgan?” Prentiss was beside him. “Talk to me!”

Derek wished he could. Hands still moving over the limp body of their leader, he glanced up at Emily’s stricken eyes, seeing his phone in her hand…and guessed that Rossi and Reid, but especially Rossi, were waiting to know if they should rejoice or grieve.

He creaked at her, but no words came out. And then he blessed the fates that had paired him with this remarkable woman who sometimes teased him to distraction, but always came through when it counted.

“He’s alive?”

Morgan nodded. Prentiss’ eyes closed for a moment of private relief. “I gotta let Rossi know. I’ll be back down in a sec.” She turned, legs churning through the underbrush, phone tight to her ear, as she climbed higher in search of reception. As she moved off, Morgan’s hands worked at a furious pace to ascertain the extent of Hotch’s damage and to staunch the flow of blood. He could hear Prentiss’ continual stream of words, hoping they’d get through to Rossi…. ‘He’s alive…he’s alive…Hotch’s alive…alive…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia couldn’t remember how to breathe.

She’d been tracking Morgan’s phone. She’d heard Rossi shout at him that the cabin was an enormous booby-trap. She’d heard the gunfire. Her mind couldn’t grasp where gunfire had a place in the agents’ situation. So, if it wasn’t gunfire, then…

Then she heard the rest of the sporadic communication.

_Derek shot Hotch? On purpose? Derek…shot…Hotch?..._

Her mind closed down, reducing her to a frightened, parti-colored vortex of emotion, only capable of inhaling in small, rabbit-sized sips. Until she heard Prentiss…Prentiss chanting a non-stop mantra for her absent teammates. ‘Alive…He’s alive…Alive…Rossi, he’s alive…’

Galvanized, Garcia at last sucked in a woman-sized lungful of air and cut through the connection.

“Rossi! Reid! Either of you!?!”

“We’re kind of busy, Garcia…”

She ignored the impatience born of concern for his friend that edged Rossi’s words. “Emily’s trying to get through, but the signal’s too weak, or maybe you guys are too busy to hear, or…”

“GARCIA!”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She took another breath. “Hotch is alive. She keeps saying it. He’s alive.”

A pause, during which Garcia could imagine Rossi reverting to his Roman Catholic background, sending heartfelt thanks heavenward, but then…renewed energy animated his efforts on Hotch’s behalf.

“He’s alive, but he’s not okay. Thanks, Garcia! Stay with them, if you can.”

She bent over her console, intent on keeping track of the lonely, little, flickering signal that was their only tie to where Prentiss and Morgan were struggling…

…to keep Hotch alive…

…to get him to civilization…

…to tell themselves that shooting him was the only way…

…to tell themselves he’d understand.

All Morgan wanted, more than anything, was to sit beside a conscious, recuperating Hotch, and try to explain that shooting him in the back was a lifesaving tactic.

But that had yet to be proven.


	64. Night Owls

J.J. had spent the better part of her day sequestered in a lounge with the families of the missing girls whose fates were as yet unknown; a situation at once cruel and hopeful.

She’d concentrated on what she did best, remaining calm; projecting a soothing presence. She’d seen Hotch, Prentiss and Morgan depart. Under the guise of bringing the victims’ parents refreshments, she’d nosed out all she could about the three agents’ destination. The families refused to leave without some form of closure, so J.J. resigned herself to babysitting them with her unique talent for defusing explosive emotion, and lending a sympathetic ear.

When a sudden flurry of activity happened throughout the areas of headquarters visible to her over the shoulders of her charges, J.J. managed to keep her placid expression. But her heart tripped into overdrive. She rose from her seat, crossed to the wide windows fronting on the hallways and public areas where officers worked in cubicles on normal days.

This was nothing like normal.

J.J. glimpsed Rossi and Reid in the thick of things, and longed to go to their aid. Instead, she surreptitiously closed the blinds, removing the frantic scene from the parents’ view before they’d even become aware it existed.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sandstrom? Mr. and Mrs. Beryl?” Four pairs of tragic eyes fixed on the liaison. “If you’re going to stay here, at least let me bring you something to eat.” The offer was met with dejected disinterest. Knowing it was useless to ask if anyone wanted something special in the way of food, J.J. edged toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. And I’ll see if there’s anything new to report.” That last at least caused a couple of bowed heads to look up.

“Thank you, J.J.”

The liaison wasn’t even sure who’d said it. She was out the door as quickly as she could move, pulling it closed behind her, trying to keep the noise of frenzied commotion from alerting the parents that something might have happened…like the recovery of a small body…

 

xxxxxxx

 

Unsure whether anyone could pick up her signal, Prentiss kept repeating, “He’s alive…Hotch’s alive…Rossi, he’s alive…” Frustration built inside her. She wanted to race back down the slope and help Morgan with Hotch, but she knew how desperately the others awaited a verdict on the Unit Chief’s condition. Secretly, she hoped what she was reporting was still true. The man’s face had been so pale and blank. It haunted her.

“He’s alive…Hotch’s alive…Rossi, can you hear me?...He’s alive…”

When Garcia’s spotty voice broke in, Prentiss gasped with relief.

“Emily!!” The tech analyst sounded impossibly distant. “He knows! Rossi knows! I told him Hotch is okay.”

“He’s _not_ okay, Garcia! I’ve gotta get back to him and Morgan…”

“Wait! Emily, wait!”

Prentiss wavered, caught between the desire to run and the importunate tone of Penelope’s voice. “What?!”

Garcia leaned into her console, anxious to keep the connection for a few more heartbeats. “What can I do to help?”

Prentiss gripped the phone tighter, taking out her frustration on it. “Nothing…I…uh…you’re too far…nothing, Garcia…”

“What do you  need? Emily?!”

With a breath that bordered on being a sob, Prentiss began the trek back to Morgan and Hotch. “I need daylight and a way to get Hotch out!” Her voice softened. “Sorry, Garcia. Nothing you can do. Just keep track of us.” She pocketed the phone and concentrated on negotiating a path down the hillside. The last thing they needed was for her to turn an ankle, giving Morgan _two_ comrades to pack out of the wilderness.

Back in Quantico, Garcia pressed glossy, ruby lips together. _Wanna bet I can’t do something about it? Daylight and a way out…_ She took a shaky breath as she broke protocol, calling one of her emergency numbers. “Here we go…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J. didn’t waste time procuring food. The lack of interest among the victims’ parents relieved her of any guilt on that score. Vending machine provender would be just fine under the circumstances. Besides, her main objective was to find out what was behind the frenetic activity running through the Thief River Falls PD.

When she found Reid, he was in the middle of going over a hiker’s map of the northern woodlands with a couple of men who looked like illustrations from a picture book about Paul Bunyan and Other Lumberjack Legends. She rested a hand on his arm, but the look he gave her made it clear that any interruption was unwelcome. J.J. was about to concede defeat and return to the room where parents tottered on the knife’s edge between hope and grief, when her phone gave an insistent buzz.

 “Garcia? What’s going on? I’ve been with the families all day. What…?”

“No time now, Sunshine. I did something I’m not supposed to, something bad…well…not something _really_ bad, but…well…when Emily said she needed light and a way out and she sounded so…so…”

“GARCIA!!”

Penelope snapped back into efficiency mode, but still wasn’t as forthcoming as J.J. might have wished. “Just tell Rossi that the National Guard’s sending in helicopters to light up the area and, if any of us reach Prentiss or Morgan, tell them to turn on their headlights and wave flashlights around…anything they can think of. The Guard’ll try to airlift Hotch out if they can maneuver. If they can get to any kind of clearing or road, it might work.” Having delivered her main news, Garcia’s voice veered off into a place of awed disbelief… “God, can you believe it, J.J.? Derek shot Hotch? I mean…wow…”

J.J.’s brows flew skyward, but professionalism clicked in a heartbeat after. “Got it! Thanks, Penelope.”

Minutes later, the liaison forcibly yanked Reid away from his session with the locals, delivered Garcia’s message, and returned to the victims’ families bearing a variety of snacks and beverages. Her calm demeanor was back in place; unassailable, unwavering, as reliable as sunrise.

But she made certain she sat where she could keep tabs on the station’s activity through a gap in the window blinds. And she was very careful to keep her thoughts from showing in either voice or expression. _Derek shot Hotch?! What the hell??!!!_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi’s jaw had dropped.

But only for a moment. Then he’d continued to focus on sending two ATVs into the area where it was known Prentiss, Morgan and Hotch had ventured. Just in case the measures Garcia had initiated didn’t work out.

He was stunned that Garcia had bypassed normal channels; in effect going behind the Governor of Minnesota’s back. _And the President’s, too, if you want to get technical…_ But he was glad she’d done it and, if there were consequences, he’d back her up and take the fall himself.

Still, if things went wrong, which is what seemed to be the order of the day, he wanted to know that a couple of vehicles driven by locals familiar with this type of terrain, and an EMT on board, were headed toward the agents. It went without saying that Rossi planned on being a passenger, too.

But Garcia… _Bless your heart, Kitten. You don’t pull any punches when it comes to your family’s safety._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Dammit, Morgan!” Prentiss vented her frustration.

She almost hated it worse that he’d shouted himself hoarse, than that he’d shot Hotch. She missed his banter and posturing and all the familiar curses and observations that she’d come to realize were audible security blankets for her. Without Morgan’s vocal presence, she felt doubly isolated.

She’d left Derek’s phone on, as Rossi had instructed, but she’d stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans. She knew help was coming, but the only way they’d be found was if they were someplace where the phone could be tracked. In other words, higher ground.

The best of all possible worlds would be if they could get Hotch back to the Range Rover and make a cautious path back the way they’d come. Even in the pitch dark. Even on a trail without streetlights or signs. At least creeping along slowly, help would reach them sooner. And it couldn’t come soon enough.

Hotch was deathly pale and hadn’t stirred. The way Morgan kept checking his pulse was disturbing.

“Morgan, for Pete’s sake, let me help!”

Derek shook his head, shouldering Prentiss away. It was important to him that he carry Hotch himself. He made a few rusty, squeaky noises that would have elicited teasing from Emily in less dire circumstances, but he refused to share his burden. He’d draped Hotch over his shoulders in a fireman’s hold, giving Prentiss the man’s jacket and motioning her to keep it pressed against the wound in Hotch’s side.

They made a clumsy trio struggling through the dark woods.

In the back of Prentiss’ mind, fueling her frustration even more than being shunted aside when it came to sharing the burden of Hotch, was the growing fear that they’d miss the road and the Range Rover in the dark.

But she kept up a steady stream of encouragement. “Not much further, Morgan. I’m sure of it…Just a little more…We’ll get there…He’s gonna be alright…”

If she couldn’t share the physical burden, Prentiss tried to lighten Morgan’s load with morale-boosting words.

But privately, she wished that…just once…someone would provide them with a dazzlingly white vehicle. Because peer around as she might, she couldn’t find the black one.


	65. Night Hawks

Morgan trudged along, head bowed.

Every few minutes, he’d shift Hotch’s body higher on his shoulders, trying to accommodate an ungainly burden of dead weight. He relied on Prentiss to steer their course. His eyes were burning, stinging from the sweat dripping off his brow. He wasn’t much use when it came to looking around for their vehicle.

But it couldn’t be too far now. It felt as though he’d been slogging along for hours. And Emily kept saying it was just a little further…just a little further.

He gave a discouraged grunt. Even if they got Hotch to the Range Rover, there was precious little they could do for him. The onboard first aid kit was adequate for minor cuts, bruises, even broken bones. _But it wasn’t designed for the times you shoot your boss in the back._

“Morgan, stop.”

Something in Emily’s voice made him stumble to a halt. He could hear his own labored breathing and, in a slightly higher register, hers, too.

“What?” he gasped. “We there?”

Prentiss would have come around to stand in front of him, but she was still pressing against the wound in Hotch’s side. It kept her to Morgan’s left and a pace behind. She wasn’t even sure if Hotch was still bleeding. Or breathing.

“Morgan, I don’t know where we are. We must’ve passed the car by now.” Her voice grew small with regret. “I’m sorry.”

The last thing she’d expected to hear was a chuckle. _Must be exhaustion. Maybe he’s going a little nuts._

“Prentiss, you never cease to amaze me.” His weary laughter was lost on her. She saw no humor in their situation. Not even remotely. Morgan took a deep, restorative breath. “Can’t blame you too much, though, ‘cause I didn’t think of it either. And ‘cause Hotch was the one with the keys.”

No sooner had the words passed his lips than Prentiss brightened. Galvanized, she patted down Hotch’s pockets, finding his phone, his badge, his gun…Her searching fingers explored the jacket she was using to staunch his wound, scolding herself the whole time. _God, Emily! You idiot! The sound of the car doors locking and unlocking! It would lead you right to it!! How much time have I wasted!?_

But as each second passed, keyless, both agents’ hearts sank a little lower. Finally, Prentiss’ frantic search stopped.

“They must’ve fallen out.” She glanced back in the direction from which they’d come. It was a lot of ground to cover. A lot of pine needle-covered ground. “Damn.” Emily’s shoulders slumped; her voice taking on an edge of defeat. She could hear the night-sounds of the forest, punctuated by Morgan’s continued harsh breathing. But there would be no electronic chirp to lead them to salvation.

Derek grunted as he hitched Hotch’s weight higher again, allowing him to stand a little straighter. “I keep forgettin’ you’re such a city girl.”

Again, the humor in his words felt out of place. Prentiss stared. “You talkin’ to _me_ , Chicago?”

Morgan’s levity faded. He _was_ Chicago-born and bred, but he’d spent time off the beaten track. At a cabin. At a lake. With a man he’d rather not talk about. So he took a heartbeat to appreciate the irony of that terrible time in his youth producing something of a survival skill that would help them now.

“If you’re sure we’ve passed the car, we need to backtrack, but, Prentiss, let’s circle a little until you think we’re downwind.”

“Downwind?”

“Yeah. Nothin’ stands out in the country like the smells a car gives off.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

 “Trust me.” He adjusted the body he was carrying again. “How’s he doing?”

Prentiss took a moment to search for a pulse. “Hanging in. But…” Even in the dark, when their eyes met, both agents acknowledged the need for haste.

Without another word, they set off again; Emily testing the breeze and picking out a route a few hundred yards downwind.

And keeping pressure on Hotch’s side.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi could feel frustration pulsing inside him with each beat of his heart.

He understood the necessity of proceeding with caution in the almost moonless night, but his internal voice was screaming, _Hurry! Hurry up! For God’s sake hurry!!_

Sitting in the back of an ATV with a driver who claimed intimate knowledge of the area, and a co-pilot doubling as a medic, Rossi felt like dead weight. His spirits had lifted at the news that Garcia had bluffed her way into calling out the National Guard, but no one had been able to reach Prentiss or Morgan since. He consoled himself with the thought that once the agents heard the sound of helicopters, they’d understand.

 _But if they’re not someplace accessible or they haven’t reached their vehicle…if they don’t have any light…what good will it do them?_ A sour look crossed Rossi’s face. _Yeah, that’d be great…thanks for sending backup, guys. Too bad we couldn’t signal. Too bad they left without finding us._

With a gusty sigh, he settled deeper into his seat, phone in hand, pressing the redial key every few seconds, hoping Prentiss or Morgan would answer.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Hotch groaned, making feeble attempts to move as he lay across Morgan’s shoulders, Prentiss nearly knocked Derek to the ground in her enthusiasm.

“Hotch? Hotch!” She laid a palm along the side of his face, delivering a volley of light, insistent pats. “Hotch!”

Another groan and mumbled words Prentiss couldn’t quite catch were the only responses before the Unit Chief lapsed back into unconsciousness. But it was a hopeful sign, buoying Emily’s spirits and renewing her determination to sniff out the location of their ride.

Morgan was pleased with any signs of life, but he kept the words Hotch had muttered to himself. Close to Derek’s ear, it had been hard for him to miss.

“Angie…forgive…”

The little Sachs girl still haunted Hotch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Half an hour of cautious progress passed.

Morgan’s insistence they pause every few yards had a two-fold purpose. It allowed both agents the opportunity to sniff for the steely scent of an automobile, although Prentiss was still skeptical on that score; and it let them rest. Morgan had sometimes harangued Hotch for his lackluster appetite, but now he wouldn’t have minded if his boss weighed a little less. The human body might be capable of phenomenal grace in motion, but as an unresponsive mass hoisted on one’s shoulders, it was nothing but an awkward drain on one’s strength.

 Hotch had moaned a couple of times, but hadn’t shown any other signs of emerging from oblivion.

Prentiss stopped, feeling her throat swell, a presage to tears of defeat and exhaustion. Tears she would reserve for a private moment; not something she would ever inflict on a teammate when survival called for toughness and determination. She straightened, gulping back the impulse…and froze, mouth open, sucking in air as part of her attempt to quell her emotions.

Lifting her head higher, she pulled in more air. And more. Again. Once more.

Morgan’s weary voice reached her. “Prentiss…what are you doing?” The smile she beamed at Derek was infectious, forcing him to return a faded version of it without knowing why.

“Do you smell it?” Eyes glistening with triumph, Prentiss strode as quickly as darkness would allow in the direction from which the breeze came. “Gas. I’m sure of it.” There had also been a metallic tang in the back of her throat, almost like a taste of civilization, and so out of place in this untrammeled wilderness.

Morgan followed at a renewed pace; hope lending him an extra reserve of endurance.

“Damn, Derek! You were right! Hot damn!!” When Prentiss’ shriek of joy signaled she’d found their ride, Morgan’s eyes filled. But just like his partner, he squelched the urge to cry.

They were still a long way from the help Hotch needed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi gave up trying to reach the agents via phone. He was entering the same area, the same type of terrain that rendered their reception spotty. Telling himself that Garcia or Reid or J.J. would be trying and would have better luck, he pocketed the unreliable apparatus.

He leaned forward from his place in the backseat, willing the ATV to go faster, supplementing the growl of the engine with his own prayers and imprecations.

He almost missed the distinctive sound of rotors, lost in the noise of their progress, and in his own inner turmoil.

When the helicopters passed overhead, Rossi’s heart leapt with hope and relief, his eyes filling. Unlike Prentiss and Morgan, he gave his tears free rein.

 


	66. Homing Pigeons

Prentiss had an anxious moment as her fingers wrapped around the Range Rover’s door handle.

_We don’t have the keys, so please, PLEASE, by all the powers that be, don’t let it be locked! I mean, I know we can break in, but, Jeeezzzz… enough already!_

The powers that be heard; the front door opened with a satisfying clunk as the welcoming glow of interior lights flashed on, making both agents squint after so much time spent in darkness. They exchanged looks of pure relief. Both could imagine Hotch so hell-bent on his mission to rescue two little victims that even something as automatic as engaging the lock mechanism fled before his sense of urgency. _Plus, who’s gonna steal a car out here in the butt-end of beyond?_

Prentiss hurried to open the passenger doors, allowing Morgan to deposit his burden on the spacious backseat. With a groan of sheer gratitude for being able to shed the man’s weight, Derek stretched Hotch out, immediately checking his pulse and respiration, then moving down to inspect the bullet wound… _That I gave him!..._ While he pulled clothing away, exposing the damage, seeing it for the first time under bright illumination, Prentiss rummaged about in the rear of the vehicle.

Still, she knew what must be running on an endless, destructive loop through her partner’s mind.

As she pulled the first aid kit from its storage nook, she pitched her voice low and forceful. “This was _not_ your fault, Morgan. Don’t even _think_ of going there.”

Derek accepted the kit from her, pulling it to him, taking out gauze and alcohol, intending to clean the blood away for a better assessment of Hotch’s damage. He spared Prentiss a furtive glance. “Of course it’s my fault. I pulled the trigger. And I know I didn’t have much choice. But still…” He bowed his head over Hotch’s midsection, hiding the depth of his feelings under the guise of swabbing alcohol over gored-stained skin.

Prentiss watched him for a moment, lips compressed, eyes narrowed.

“Be right back.” She backed out of the side of the vehicle opposite Morgan, striding off into the darkness beneath the trees. Before he could ask her where she was going, a single shot rang out, explosive in the forest night.

“What the…? _Prentiss_!?” Startled, Morgan straightened from bending over Hotch, pulling out his own gun in readiness. Backing up a pace, he stared in the direction his partner had gone. “Prentiss!! _Emily_?!”

She emerged from the woods, black clothing providing camouflage, giving Morgan the momentary impression that her whitened face was floating toward him.

“Prentiss!! You okay? What the hell did you do?”

Approaching, she shrugged, still fumbling her gun back into its holster. “Gave myself a bargaining chip.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. If it looks to me like you’re goin’ down some dark, dead-end, I’m-guilty-of-shooting-Boss-man road, then I’m gonna tell everyone _I_ did it.”

The strained look on Morgan’s face might have been comical under other circumstances. The rapid play of confusion, horror, and finally comprehension played havoc with his features, most notably his eyebrows. In the end outraged disbelief won. “You can’t do that!”

“I just did. Worst case scenario: they’ll think we both fired on Hotch. It’s my word against yours. We’re sharing this one…unless you cut the guilt-tripping.”

Morgan opened his mouth to say that ballistics would place the blame where it belonged, but Prentiss saw it coming… “And you said there was an exit wound, right? No bullet to determine whose gun it came from. So we’re back to ‘he said; she said.’” Her grin would have been dastardly except for the genuine care and affection Morgan saw brimming from his partner’s eyes.

“Prentiss…Emily…” He shook his head. The mention of an exit wound brought his immediate concern back to Hotch. Morgan bent over his boss once more, exploring the extent of his damage. But not before he rendered final judgment.

“I won’t let you do that.” He glanced up, eyes a little misty. “But thanks.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

While Morgan cleaned Hotch’s wound and applied sterile gauze, wrapping it around the man’s waist like a Tim Burton-esque cummerbund, Prentiss busied herself with exploring their ride.

Once she’d ascertained that the Thief River Falls PD had provided their guests with a late-model version, her hope of hotwiring shifted of necessity to finding a spare set of keys. She scrabbled about under floor mats and behind visors, wishing they’d been given transportation from the mid-1990s. _At least then I’d be **able** to hotwire it._ She shook her head at progressive theft protection. _If I break into the wiring on this one, the starter will automatically lock. No way to come back from that. At least not for me._ Prentiss sighed. Her street skills were formidable, but she hadn’t kept them current once she’d entered the legit profession of being a fed; something she vowed to remedy once they were back in civilization. _If it’s a talent that comes in handy, it’s not ‘bad.’_

When her search proved fruitless, she stood back, watching Morgan work, and holding an inner debate. _I can take one of the flashlights from the safety equipment…maybe a couple of flares, just in case. But I’ll have to retrace our steps. See if I can find the keys wherever they fell out of Hotch’s pocket._

She knew Morgan wouldn’t want her to wander off. She wasn’t too keen on the idea herself. But Prentiss had never been the type to wait for someone to rescue her. Her personal creed was ‘Be the predator, not the prey; be the rescuer, not the victim.’

She was about to sneak off, adhering to another of her personal rules of thumb; one that purported that asking forgiveness was preferable to asking permission, when a small noise made Morgan stiffen and glance up, eyes filled with both dread and hope.

“Hotch?”  He moved along the backseat, looking down on his leader, inches separating their faces.

Prentiss came back to the passenger door opposite Morgan’s, leaning in to look down on their fallen comrade, too. She kept her hand gripping a flashlight and flares behind her; concealed, but still set on going in search of the lost keys.

“Hotch? Man, you awake?” Morgan’s voice was soft, a pleading note creeping in.

Hotch took a few minutes to focus. Even then, he looked numb and weary. “Wha’ happen’d?”

Prentiss overrode any reply Morgan might have been contemplating. “You got hurt, Hotch. We’re stuck in these damn woods, but people know we’re here. I’m sure the others are on the way.” She quirked a crooked grin down at her boss. “Knowing Rossi, he probably called out the National Guard.” She’d meant it as a joke.

Hotch took it that way, giving her a wan and sickly grin that morphed into a grimace as he made an abortive attempt to sit up, engaging damaged muscle tissue in his side. The wince and groan of pain went straight to Morgan’s heart. Placing a hand flat against Hotch’s chest, he exerted just enough gentle pressure to communicate that laying down was mandatory.

“Stay still, man. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re lookin’ a little shocky. Just lie still, okay?”

Hotch licked chapped lips. “The girls? Okay?”

Morgan’s and Prentiss’ eyes met, exchanging a silent, yet eloquent, dialogue. _Let’s put this in a way that’ll give him hope and make him fight to hang on._

“Hotch, we couldn’t get in the cabin.” Prentiss’ words were filled with tender care. The wounded Unit Chief was in no shape to question them. His brain didn’t have the vigor at present to dart beneath the surface in search of hidden content. “The cabin’s wired for explosives, so we’re backing off, but…” She hastened to add what she was sure was truth. “…experts are on the way. They’ll disarm it.”

Morgan touched Hotch’s jaw, reclaiming the man’s focus. “We’ll take care of everything. You know that. So right now, just lie still and rest. Can you do that?”

Eyes that were having trouble staying open tried to keep steady on Morgan. “Wha’ happened? How’d I get hurt?”

“Shhhh…Doesn’t matter now. We’ll explain everything later.” Prentiss stroked gentle fingers across Hotch’s brow, watching the soothing motion take effect, seeing eyelids grow heavier, eventually drifting shut.

When they were sure Hotch was out again, even though he gave occasional whimpers, the two agents moved away from the vehicle for a private discussion.

“We’re gonna have to tell him sooner or later.” Morgan was torn. He appreciated Prentiss’ protective tactics, but until he gave Hotch full disclosure, his stomach would be in knots. He wasn’t the type of man who could ever accept deceiving his boss.

“Sure, but he’s fragile right now, Derek. Let’s get him to some proper medical care and let him get some strength back first.” Prentiss brandished the flashlight and flares still clutched in her hand. “And to that end, I’m gonna go on a key-hunt.”

Morgan had been about to object to such a fool-hardy venture. In the middle of the night. In a forest where they’d already been lost once. Alone. But he knew they needed to get Hotch out. Their leader might not be in danger of bleeding out, but he was in pain and would only get weaker with each passing hour as long as they couldn’t provide him with antibiotics or nourishment. _Or a straight answer to his questions about the girls he thought he was rescuing. He’ll worry himself into a frenzy, into depression, and maybe into his grave._ Yet he didn’t want Prentiss prowling the woods either.

“I’ll go.” He held out his hand for the flashlight. “I’m sure Hotch’d prefer your bedside manner to mine anyway.”

Prentiss bristled, about to argue multiple points. She detected a slight taint of misogyny in Morgan’s statements. Despite the affectionate, joking quality she knew he intended, Emily wasn’t about to give in on such terms.

“Morgan, don’t make me say this more than once. I…”

Both agents froze.

Listening to the sound of helicopters approaching, rotors beating with a rhythm like hope.


	67. Whirlybirds

Rossi’s sense of urgency grew, keeping pace with his frustration.

He reined himself in, knowing it was a purely emotional response. Still, he wanted to grab the wheel from the driver and tear through the unfamiliar terrain in search of his teammates. But as he eavesdropped on the two men in the front of the ATV, working out navigational details, Rossi had to admit they were doing an excellent job and he couldn’t contribute anything useful. Garcia had provided coordinates taken from the last contact she’d had with Morgan’s phone. She’d also factored in a few other points she’d been able to track, giving a workably accurate map of the route taken.

Up until contact had been lost.

Sighing, Rossi scrubbed at his beard. _Up until Hotch got shot. By Morgan?_ He refused to make any judgment until he knew more. But the fact that Prentiss had taken the phone from Morgan and hadn’t been heard from since verifying Hotch was alive, made Rossi think the situation was serious enough to command both agents’ attention to the exclusion of all other concerns.

The sound of the helicopters passing overhead an hour ago had raised his spirits. But he was getting anxious waiting to hear the copters make their return journey. _Unless they can’t find them. Unless they **did** find them and lifted them out in a different direction. Unless they crashed. Unless they realized they were called out with improper authorization and they returned to base…_

Rossi muffled an exasperated growl.

“You okay back there?” The driver’s concerned eyes regarded him in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah. Sorry.” The FBI agent shifted position, staring at the dark, tree-ridden landscape. “Just worried about my friends.”

The medic acting as co-pilot, rustled the map in his grip. “I get it. I lost a couple of good ones out here a few years back. Mother Nature’s not the kind of girl you wanna mess with.” He glanced around, catching Rossi’s unamused glare. Sighing, he turned in his seat, giving Rossi his full attention, and a sympathetic look. “Sorry. We’re only about an hour away, near as we can figure. Hang in there. We’ll find them.”

But when the medic turned forward, Rossi saw the glance he shared with the man behind the wheel.

It was more wary than hopeful.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Holy crap…” Prentiss stared upward, unable to accept what her ears were telling her. She needed to see running lights before she’d believe helicopters were approaching. “Holy crap…Morgan, I was kidding when I said Rossi’d get the National Guard on our tail. Do ya think he…?…Holy crap!…”

Morgan was likewise staring toward the sky…and in a split second he realized it was more accurate to say he was staring toward the treetops. _They’ll never see us down here!_

“Prentiss! Light! We need light, or they’ll go right past us! We’ve gotta get their attention! Gotta throw light at them!” He turned back toward the Range Rover, momentarily torn between wanting to stay for a first sight of the aircraft just to be sure it was really happening, and needing to send a signal or risk being left behind. Needing to move fast…Fast… _FASTER_!!

When Morgan’s feet finally obeyed, running him back toward their vehicle, a prayer on his lips that he’d find something, _any_ thing in time to announce their presence to fast-moving choppers other than the questionable illumination of the car’s interior lights…he was jolted by an explosive blast, punctuated by Prentiss’ gleeful cry. Stumbling, skidding to a stop, he twisted around toward the noise…

…and the light. The glorious, brilliant, arcing light.

Prentiss, still gripping equipment that she’d hoped to take on a foray for lost keys, had deployed her flares and was aiming her flashlight toward the sparsest area of interlacing treetops.

Morgan stared, jaw agape, for a moment. Then, like a wish come true, he heard the aircraft circling rather than passing. When a bullhorn broke through the noise of rotors, he returned to Prentiss’ side. He could guess why she was carrying flares and a flashlight. She hadn’t ever intended to give him a choice about retracing their route through the woods on a scavenger hunt for Hotch’s keys.

Engulfing her in a hug, Morgan blessed his partner’s rebellious, predictably _un_ predictable spirit.

 

xxxxxxx

 

_“Bring your man ‘bout a‘hunnerd yards south on the trail.”_

The voice, rendered harshly mechanical by the bullhorn, nonetheless sounded angelic to the agents.

Once again, Morgan shouldered his chosen burden, carrying Hotch down the road to a spot where the helicopter pilot and his crew thought a body-basket could be maneuvered through the branches and foliage.

Only this time, Hotch wasn’t completely unconscious. He rallied enough to make querulous noises that his teammates didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Th’ girls?” Hotch’s haunted eyes were dark with doubt. “Girls first. Where’re th’ girls?”

“Shhhhh…” Prentiss kept pace with Morgan, stroking comforting fingers over their leader’s shoulders. “We told you, Hotch. We’ll take care of everything. You just go let someone take care of _you_ now. That’s _your_ job; the best thing you can do right now. Me and Morgan…we got the rest. Rest…” She couldn’t quell the questions in his eyes; not entirely. But she kept up a soothing chant until they reached their destination. “…rest…rest…rest…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Once the injured man was secured in the helicopter’s bay, the crew asked if the two FBI agents would like to come out, too. They’d brought a second unit just for the purpose of evacuation. They hadn’t known how many victims would be involved.

Morgan and Prentiss didn’t even need to confer.

“Thanks, but we’re staying.” Derek’s brow was furrowed; unable to relinquish the responsibility of seeing the saga of Elijah Wesson and the allegedly booby-trapped cabin to its conclusion, but also tied by conscience and concern to Hotch’s welfare.

He shook the hand into which he’d consigned his boss, and backed away as Hotch was winched up past the branches swirling with restless motion in the currents of the rotors.

“You sure? We got room.” To tell the truth, the crewman was puzzled about this mission. Two units had been dispatched to rescue imperiled government agents. The first scenario that had crossed his mind was that a terrorist cell or a particularly belligerent enclave of survivalists had attacked.

Now, he wasn’t sure _what_ was going on.

Still, the man they’d lifted out was definitely in need of medical attention. He shrugged as the other two feds once again tendered their thanks and reaffirmed their intention to stay put.

 _Must be something the boys upstairs are keeping under wraps. Oh, well. ‘Ours not to question why…’_ he waxed philosophic as he rode the line back up to the hovering craft.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The silence following the National Guard’s departure felt profound.

Prentiss and Morgan knew part of the sensation of stillness was relief. Hotch was headed toward a medical facility. But they were also thankful that they’d managed to send him on his way without having to delve any deeper into the matter of the cabin and the missing girls.

The two agents returned to the car, noting as they approached that the interior lights were a fraction dimmer than when they’d left.

“Battery’s dying.” Prentiss didn’t sound as though the matter concerned her much.

“Death happens.” They both knew Morgan was referencing something much deeper than automotive performance.

“You think those girls are in the cabin? Hiding maybe?”

“Prentiss, the whole time I was down there with Hotch, making all kinds of noise…I didn’t hear anything coming from inside that building.” The look he gave her held immeasurable sorrow.

“Maybe they’re scared? Restrained?”

But when Morgan’s expression didn’t change, Emily had to look away. “I know,” she whispered. “I just hoped, you know?”

“I know. But it’s been days. Reid’d quote statistical odds at you, but…”

“Yeah. I know. But...”

They settled themselves in the front seat of the vehicle, waiting for backup, a bomb squad, or dawn; whichever would come first. Both stared into the darkness beneath the trees, minds occupied. Sad, but companionable, silence stretched between them, until both spoke in unintended unison.

“Poor Hotch.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Mission accomplished, the pilot of the National Guard helicopter carrying an injured FBI agent thumbed open the channel connecting him to his base.

“Fang 12, Alpha Delta, come in base. Johnny, you there?”

“Come back at’cha Fang 12. You guys okay?”

“Yeah, we got one to transport. ETA ten minutes to Grand Forks.”

“I’ll alert them to your status. He bad?”

“I think he’ll make it. Unit 2, Fang 14, Alpha Gamma’s on their way home.”

“Only one casualty?”

“That’s a roger, Johnny.”

A pause preceded the base’s response. “I thought from the call-out, that you guys were heading into a war zone!” The sound of a relieved sigh followed. “Well, glad it’s only one. I’ll have the heliport at Grand Forks waiting with med-vac.”

“Thanks, Johnny. See ya at home.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Miles away in Quantico, Garcia had managed to tap into the communications channels of the National Guard unit she’d alerted. She’d been monitoring them since then, adrenaline pumping as she waited for news about her babies.

Now, her heart did a happy, little skip. It sounded as though Hotch was on his way to the hospital in Grand Forks, North Dakota. And, if the pilot’s assessment could be trusted, the Unit Chief’s injuries weren’t life-threatening. And no one else was in need of medical care.

Making small, joyful, squeaking noises to herself, Garcia began to spread the word to every one of Hotch’s teammates within reception's reach.

Maybe it would be a good day after all.


	68. Hummingbirds

Dawn wasn’t far off when Morgan shook Prentiss awake from the light doze into which she’d fallen, curled up on the front seat.

He’d closed his eyes along with her, but sleep had eluded him. Instead, he spent the time compartmentalizing with a vengeance. _I shot Hotch. In the back. But I had to or he’d be dead. But I don’t know that for sure. What if…_ Despite his efforts, the solitude and the night worked on Derek, escorting his thoughts into the darkest corners they could find.

 _What if there wasn’t any wiring? No explosives? What if I shot my boss, my friend, for nothing?_ Even murkier, more sullen corners beckoned to him, but, with a gargantuan, mental effort, Morgan wrenched himself away from them. He distracted himself by watching Prentiss sleep. The strategy worked somewhat. It made him think of her misguided offer to share blame when she’d fired her gun and announced she would tell everyone hers had been the finger on the trigger. Morgan smiled. The way Prentiss had said it, one would think she was taking credit rather than shouldering something shameful.

 _And if it came down to it, I bet she’d do a better job of it than me; emerge sad, but stronger._ He shook his head as Emily snorted in her sleep. _She’s got steel at her core. That’s for sure._

It took a moment for the faint sound that had been present for several minutes to impinge on his consciousness. But when it did, recognition made his heart leap.

 _Backup’s here! Bomb squad?_  It shocked Morgan to find he wasn’t sure he wanted the cabin investigated; wasn’t sure if he wanted to know if it was a deathtrap waiting to detonate. If it wasn’t… _Hotch!..._

He shook the morbid cobwebs from his thoughts and gripped Prentiss’ shoulder. “Emily! Wake up! Help’s here. C’mon. We gotta go.”

Prentiss made a garbled noise that might have been a cross between a burp and a snarl, but she snapped to awareness with admirable speed, blinking up at her partner. “We gotta meet them. They’ll pass us by if we don’t guide them to us.”

Morgan gave her a companionable nudge with his shoulder. “I think we’ve got enough battery life left for that.” He leaned on the horn; one long, loud blast followed by a bevy of short ones, a sequence he kept up while Prentiss exited the vehicle, moving off toward the sound of engines, waving her flashlight in the pre-dawn gray.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi leaned forward, peering through the gap between the front seats; eager eyes searching the dimly-lit woods with such intensity he made the others nervous. They could feel his restive energy ramping up, the closer they came to their estimated target area.

Straining for any sign of his teammates, he shouted when the sound of a horn, clearly being used as a homing signal, drifted through the trees. “Hear that? It’s them! It’s them!”

The driver grinned, anticipating the reunion between these feds who, it was obvious, were more than mere colleagues. _Guy’s gonna burst if we don’t find them soon._ “I hear it, Agent. They’re close.”

Moments later, when Prentiss’ light flickered out from between the tree trunks like a firefly on steroids, Rossi opened his door, barely waiting for the driver to apply the brakes before he hit the ground running. “Prentiss! Prentiss!” She jogged to meet him, her grin tired, but filled with warm welcome.

“Rossi! Any word on Hotch?”

“No. I heard the choppers overhead, but we’ve been out of reception. How was he? What happened?”

Prentiss glanced over Rossi’s shoulder at the vehicles discharging gear-laden officials. She lowered her voice. “He lost a lot of blood, but he was holding his own when they lifted him out.” Her grin grew mischievous. “How’d you get the National Guard on board? I didn’t think they did this kind of thing.”

“That was Garcia…” Rossi let his voice descend to a more confidential register as well. “…but don’t tell anyone, okay? We might have some tap dancing to do to make it right.”

“Got it.” Privately, Emily wondered if she could get away with taking blame for the bullet that had felled Hotch, as well as whatever red tape had been circumvented by Garcia to rescue him. She dismissed the notion almost immediately; the logistics just wouldn’t hold up. _But it would’ve been a hell of a way to go out with a bang…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch closed his eyes and let himself be cared for.

He had no idea where he was being taken, or what had happened to remove him from the field, but he held on to the two things that had comforted him: the feel of Morgan’s strength picking up not only his boss, but the burden of leadership in Hotch’s absence; and Prentiss’ assurance that she and Derek would see the case to completion.

The sincerity and courage they’d projected almost made Hotch ashamed that he had ever doubted them. _Because when you put my embarrassment on the scale, weighing it against saving the lives of two children…_ He swallowed an uncomfortable lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat. _What happens to me isn’t important. Getting those girls back to their families…that’s all that really matters._

He let the rhythm of the rotors lull him. Semi-conscious, he was barely aware of being lifted to a gurney upon landing. By the time he was the focus of five emergency room personnel, Hotch had drifted off again, too weak to stay alert for more than a few minutes at a time.

He didn’t mind. As an anesthesiologist put him under, Hotch’s mind took him to a place where children’s laughter descended from the sky like jeweled flights of hummingbirds, darting around him with pure speed and freedom and joy. He loved it. He wished he could join the aerial acrobatics, but somehow he knew it was his job to stand guard; to make sure nothing harmed the tiny, fragile flocks.

Hotch’s chance for such childish delights was gone. But knowing he could safeguard it for others was almost as good as the gift itself.

The doctor cleaning and suturing Hotch’s wound shook his head at his colleagues. “Guy’s smiling. Don’t usually get that on the operating table.”

One of the nurses assisting shrugged. “Maybe he knows how lucky he is.”

“Yeah,” chimed in another. “A little to the left and he could’ve kissed being able to walk goodbye.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

It was full light by the time the agents, along with the bomb squad and backup personnel, reached the knoll overlooking the cabin built by Elijah Wesson.

Prentiss still had Morgan’s phone in her pocket. Remembering that this was the last place where reception had been reliable, she bent over the device, eager to make contact with teammates in the outside world.

Rossi and Morgan accompanied the demolition experts down the slope to the potentially explosive cabin; Rossi casting a longing look in Emily’s direction, communicating his need for an update on Hotch’s condition.

“Garcia!”

“Emily! Are you alright? Is Morgan? Did you hook-up with Rossi? Did you find the girls? J.J.’s still with the parents, and…and…” The tech analyst’s voice went from ecstatic to anxious to tear-choked in ten seconds flat.

“Garcia, I don’t have a lot of time.” Prentiss watched the bomb technicians scanning the ground for land mines around the cabin. “Can you tell me how Hotch’s doing? We haven’t heard anything since they lifted him out.” She glanced about, making sure of her privacy. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Penelope’s voice was back to bubbling cheer. “You’re welcome, My Vision. I checked a little bit ago and Hotch was in surgery, but they said everything looked good. Reid’s on his way over there so My Liege won’t wake up alone.” She switched with alarming, emotional agility back to quavering dread. “But J.J. _is_ all alone…holding down the fort, waiting for you guys to send word about…about…”

“I know, I know.” Chewing on her lip, Prentiss took a moment to think. She was over-tired and over-stressed, but J.J. needed something. She only wished she could give the liaison better. “They’re checking the cabin out now. Once it’s cleared, we’ll know more.” Prentiss should have realized empathic Garcia would pick up on the dense, dead tone she hadn’t been able to help using when the subject was the missing girls.

“Oh, God. Emily…?”

“We don’t know anything yet, Garcia. Just…” She watched men in padded hazard gear running sensors on telescoping poles over the joints of the cabin door. “…Just tell J.J. we’re almost in. Best I can do. Sorry.”

“Okay.”

It was a small, chirp of a response. The kind Garcia used when she dreaded being the messenger of bad news.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid flashed his badge at the admittance desk of St. Joseph’s Hospital, Grand Forks, North Dakota.

“Spencer Reid, FBI. I need to know Aaron Hotchner’s condition.”

A rapid flurry of keystrokes that gave Reid a pang of longing for Garcia and home and the day before yesterday when Hotch had only been upset, but not injured, brought up the post-surgical report on the man who’d been shot.

“He’s in recovery.” The woman manning the hospital’s first stop for visitors glanced up at the face that looked too young and too worried. Her lips quirked into a crooked, compassionate half-smile. “You can head down there…” She pointed toward a pair of double doors. “…room 136. I’ll get Mr. Hotchner’s doctor to meet you there.”

“Thanks.” Reid turned away, slipping his creds back into his pocket. Her voice called him back.

“He’s going to be fine. Just so you know.” She winked, trying to lighten this young man’s mood. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Reid tried to return her smile, but couldn’t quite.

He wasn’t looking forward to being the first one, other than Rossi, to face Hotch, one-on-one, since the Unit Chief had discovered his team’s duplicity.

_We punched him in the emotions, and now he’s physically hurt, too. And it might be that one of his team’s to blame for that as well. Great._

Head down, with a complete lack of enthusiasm, Reid went in search of his fallen leader.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The bomb squad took their time, doing a thorough, exacting job.

While they were sweeping the building and the grounds immediately surrounding it, Morgan told Rossi why he’d felt it was necessary to shoot his boss in the back. Prentiss tried to jump in with qualifying statements that were tailored to ease Derek’s sense of guilt, but Rossi shushed her.

He wanted bare, unvarnished facts. Shamefaced, Morgan provided them. When he was done, the older agent stepped back. Sighing, he ran a hand over his beard.

“I don’t envy you, Derek. That was a tough decision. But…” He tossed his hands up in a very Italian gesture of acceptance. “…I think I would have done the same. Only maybe my aim wouldn’t have been as good. And maybe things would’ve turned out a lot worse. So…” Rossi shrugged. “… _Que sera, sera_. Trading Hotch’s life for a wound is a pretty good deal in my book. You saved him, Derek. I’m sure he’ll think the same.”

Morgan was about to reply that he appreciated the supportive sentiment, but it didn’t make him feel any better, when a shout from the men investigating the cabin drew the agents’ attention.

“You guys!” One of the heavily-clad demolition experts had removed his headgear. “We’re gonna open her up.” He gave the FBI agents a wide grin. “I don’t think we have to worry. Clean sweep. Nothing’s gonna go ‘boom.’”

He couldn’t understand why his news was met with such dour expressions.

 


	69. Scattered Flock

Morgan kept his eyes downcast as he descended the slope toward the cabin.

He knew Rossi and Prentiss were studying him. He wanted to avoid their scrutiny. So he kept his gaze lowered, transfixed by his own thoughts. He could have been wading through lava for all the attention he paid to the terrain. An endless litany of guilt that made everything else in his awareness pale, played across his inner ear.

_Hotch shot…shot Hotch…shot Hotch…Hotch shot…_

What _did_ pass across his vision was the look of suffering and incomprehension in Boss-man’s brown eyes. That look was one of the reasons Morgan felt so strongly about his self-proclaimed duty to protect the man. Hotch’s eyes could be indomitable, fierce; but they could also hold such pain and, worse, such _acceptance_ of pain, that it set Morgan’s teeth on edge. He’d come to the conclusion years ago that something was broken inside Hotch. He wasn’t a broken _person_ , necessarily, but somewhere along the way, he’d been taught that he deserved to be hurt. At least that was Morgan’s private working theory when it came to interpreting his Unit Chief. And protecting him. And making sure as little pain and suffering as possible entered the man’s life.

_And I’ve done a really bang-up job on him this time. I’m an idiot. Stupid. Tore the guy’s heart apart when it was none of my business, and then when it **was** my business, shot him. For no good reason. And now…_

All thought stopped.

Morgan looked up; shaken from his inner monologue by a terrible, sinking feeling.

Just as the agents reached the cabin door, the leader of the bomb squad prized it open. Fetid stench gusted out. The smell of death. Heads turned away. Noses were buried in sleeves.

The squad leader gasped, eyes watering. “You guys wanna stand back for a minute? Let us sweep the interior, just in case?”

“No.” Rossi’s voice was leaden. He stepped closer, pushing the door inward as Morgan and Prentiss took deep breaths, preparatory to entering. “No,” Rossi repeated, eyes adjusting to the interior gloom. “He wanted us to find this. He wouldn’t risk destroying his…work…with explosives.”

He was vaguely aware that someone was retching outside. And someone was sobbing; the low, ragged, tearing kind that made him think of the way Hotch cried when he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Prentiss and Morgan drew together, seeking comfort in closeness.

After several minutes had passed; enough time for Rossi to see…everything…and to get his own reactions under control, he spoke softly; private words for his teammates’ ears alone.

“We can’t let Hotch know about this. We write up the reports on the jet and I’ll sign off on them. We can’t let Hotch see the crime scene photos, or read anything about it.”

“W-what if we can’t stop him?” Morgan’s voice sounded shredded. Any recovery he’d made from the strain of shouting for Hotch to stop the day before was lost as he tried to keep from screaming his anger and horror at the scene before them.

Rossi turned, bringing his full focus on the younger agents. “ _I’ll_ stop him.” His eyes drilled into Morgan’s. “Things happen in mysterious ways, Derek. If Hotch wasn’t in a hospital, he’d be here now, taking point, seeing…this.”

Rossi’s eyes filled with bitter tears. “I’m glad you shot him.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

When J.J. got the call, she could tell Prentiss was holding back.

“Just tell them we were too late.” She sounded gravelly, struggling for control. It scared the liaison.

“Emily…what?”

“Just tell them…” Prentiss had returned to the hilltop to make the call. She glanced back down at the cabin where plastic bags waited in readiness, once photos had documented Elijah Wesson’s hobby. She made the conscious decision to lie. “…Just tell them their daughters didn’t suffer.” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, J.J. That’s the best I can do right now.”

“Okay…okay…Don’t worry about it, Em.  I’ll take care of them.” A little curious, a little stunned, J.J. was about to close the connection when she heard Prentiss calling her name, calling her back. She pressed the phone to her ear, hoping for something…anything…that would quell the dread forming curdled lumps in her stomach.

“…and make sure the locals know that the families should be discouraged from seeing the…the bodies.”

“Okay.” A few beats of silence fell, but J.J. could tell Prentiss was still there. “Emily, are you alright?”

“Sure. See you in a while. I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

J.J. knew it was a lie. She closed her phone, took a deep breath, and prepared to tell a few lies of her own. _Remember…didn’t suffer…didn’t suffer…peaceful…like going to sleep…_

Sometimes, J.J. Jareau hated her job.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“It was a clean wound. Bullet went straight through. We checked everything out and sewed him up.” The surgeon flipped a few pages of the chart containing the data for Agent Aaron Hotchner. “He’s a pretty lucky guy, considering. We’d like to keep him overnight, but then the best thing would be for him to get on his feet and start moving around again.” He glanced up at the young FBI agent with the worried eyes. “He needs to take it easy for a couple of weeks. He probably won’t be field-ready until then.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Reid gave Hotch a sidelong, nervous look. “When will he wake up?”

The surgeon gave his most encouraging smile, wondering why this relatively cheerful prognosis didn’t seem to please Mr. Hotchner’s colleague. “He was weak and in a depleted state when they brought him in, so…” He pursed his lips, equating several factors to arrive at his best guess. “…I’d say half an hour to forty-five minutes. But don’t worry if he’s out a little longer. Rest can only do him good.”

“Thanks,” Reid repeated, moving to a chair in the corner of Hotch’s private room. “I’m just gonna wait, I guess.”

“Sure. No problem.” The doctor’s smile faded.

Clearly, the young agent was concerned for the patient, but he seemed distracted, maybe even unenthusiastic about this visit. The surgeon frowned. “Can I get you anything, son? Coffee?”

“Uh, no…no, thanks.” Reid realized his trepidation was causing concern. He ducked his head, deciding this man who’d helped Hotch deserved an explanation. “It’s just been a rough case and it’s not over yet.” He tried, but the only smile he could produce was more like a momentary grimace.

The doctor shrugged, moving toward the door. “Sorry to hear that, but, it’s over for _him_ at least.”

Reid looked at pale, still Hotch. _No. It’s not over for him yet. Not until he finds out **how** he got shot._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley startled awake when the phone rang.

Pushing herself erect from where she’d dozed off on the couch, she cleared a throat scratchy from sleep and reached for the receiver. A wave of combined irritation and relief washed over her when her glance fell on the mantle clock. _Four in the morning?!_ She answered, unsure whether she should scold or show gratitude for being remembered.

“Aaron! Honey, do you know what time it…”

A stern voice interrupted. “Is this Haley Hotchner, wife of Aaron Hotchner?”

In a split-second all subterfuge and strategy fell from her like armor dropping away in chilly chunks. There was only one reason for such a call at such an hour with such a prelude. Haley’s swallow was audible. “Y-e-s…” She drawled her response, an unconscious attempt to prolong the time before she’d have to hear bad news.

“This is Roger Chadwick, Director of Admissions at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Grand Forks.” The voice paused, accustomed to giving the party on the other end of the line a chance to absorb this introductory information.

“Wh…why are you calling me?” Haley’s hands were shaking, but, strangely, she couldn’t move. Captive to whatever came next. _Please, not Aaron. Please, not Aaron. Please…_

“We have your husband here, Ma’am.” When he heard the faint catch in the woman’s breath, he hurried on. “Mr. Hotchner was injured and required emergency surgery. He came through with flying colors, but we’ll be keeping him here tonight. I expect we’ll release him tomorrow.”

“Surgery? You…he…” Her brain rebounded from its initial frozen shock, ricocheting off of multiple tangents and questions and fears. _Why didn't someone from the team call me? Why didn't Aaron? What happened? Should I go out there? **Why am I hearing this from a stranger?!?**_

Haley pulled herself together, dredging up every ounce of inner discipline. “May I speak to him? To my husband?”

The voice on the other end lost some of its strictly-information tone, dropping to a warmer, conversational one that did more to reassure Haley than any status report ever could. “Mrs. Hotchner, he’s still in recovery, but as soon as he can, I’ll make sure he gets the message to call you.” The administrator sounded genuinely concerned. “I assure you, Ma’am…he’s going to be fine.”

“But…but what happened? How did he get hurt? And where’s his team?”

“Uh, I don’t know anything about the circumstances or who was with him, but it’s my understanding that Mr. Hotchner was shot.”

“Shot? Shot…shot...”

“Yes, Ma’am. But, as I said, he’ll be fine. I’ll have him call you and he can tell you himself.” He glanced at his watch and decided it was time to end this courtesy call. He still had a number of things to attend to before he could call it a day. “That’s really all I can tell you at this time. Have a good day, Mrs. Hotchner. And try not to worry.”

Haley held the phone for several minutes after the call had ended.

 _Try not to worry?! Is he kidding??!!_ Her eyes narrowed. _This is exactly the kind of thing I worry **about**! This is exactly why we need children! So Aaron won’t just disappear from the world because someone shoots him…_

Her eyes squinted down even further. _And what exactly happened? Why didn’t someone from Aaron’s team call?_

Haley stared at her phone, debating. After a few minutes, she dialed a number.

_She’s a liaison. It’s her **job** to act as a bridge between people. And if anyone knows what’s going on, I bet it’s J.J.._

 

 

 


	70. Birds of a Feather...

For a moment Hotch felt he was floating. Or surrounded by clouds. Or swathed in bales of cotton.

For those few, rare minutes, thought was suspended. All he could do was feel. Sensation without meaning. Acceptance without reasoning. His eyes barely opened to cautious slits, reacting to the bright illumination. With vision, mental acuity began a slow, plodding return.

Everything was muffled.

There was throbbing, but the pain normally linked with such a thing was absent. The light was steady, unnatural. Scents assaulted him that brought associations of care and cleanliness. And fear. But he couldn’t quite remember what fear felt like. He just knew it was a bad thing most of the time. Not always, though. It could be a warning, a signal to stay away, get away, save yourself. Run. Run. Running…

Hotch’s eyes snapped wide. _Running! I was running!_

A sudden noise to the side, beyond his range of vision, increased the adrenaline pumping through his system. His chest expanded, causing lances of something that should have been painful, but wasn’t, emanating from a point located near the right side of his waist.

“Hotch? Hey, you awake?”

The voice was so gentle, the face that loomed into view, hovering, looking down at him, so filled with concern. For a few seconds Hotch couldn’t reconcile the fight-or-flight readiness coursing through his body with his surroundings.

Then, it all hit home. The pieces fell into place.

The throbbing that didn’t quite equate with pain… _I’m drugged. I’m hurt and drugged._

The sounds, and scents, and light… _A hospital. Medical care. Serious medical care._

Reid’s worried eyes searching his own… _My team. My team. Morgan in charge, if I’m down._

Fractured memories threaded their way to the forefront of his awareness. _Prentiss and Morgan, taking care of everything. Something happened to me, but they’ll take care of…of…_

_…Girls! The girls!..._

Hotch’s stomach muscles clenched, and despite the opioids being pumped into his system, his wound revolted against the sudden movement with jarring pain.

“Hotch? Hotch!”

But worse than pain, more demanding than injuries, he saw the rising anxiety in Reid’s wide, amber eyes. Hotch saw fear begin to blossom. His teammate needed reassurance. It was more important than his own pain.

“Reid. ‘S okay. ‘S okay.” Hotch commanded his body to relax and was pleased when it responded obediently. He was even more grateful when the distress ebbed from Reid’s expression.

“Hotch... Hotch…” The urgency was gone. The tone was calming, almost affectionate. “You’re gonna be fine, Hotch. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

The spurt of adrenaline and its attendant emotions had drained Hotch’s slender reserves. He closed his eyes, dredging up as much memory and strength as he could. “Reid, how’re the girls? What happened? Everyone else okay?”

If he hadn’t been drugged and weary and wounded, Hotch might have picked up on the hesitant pause before his youngest agent replied. “Uh…I…I don’t really know what happened. I wasn’t there. But the others are making sure everything gets done right, Hotch.” Reid’s voice brightened. “And Rossi will be here soon. The whole team will. So maybe you should rest before then. I’ll stay with you.”

A faint frown passed over Hotch’s brow. _Something’s not right. But Rossi’s coming…Reid’s scared to talk about it. But Rossi’s coming…_

With a reluctant, but resigned nod, the Unit Chief lay still. Reid pulled his chair closer.

After a moment, Hotch felt something on his arm. Fingers. Fingers stroking the boney side of his wrist. In spite of his growing sense of impending bad news, he smiled. This was as close as Spencer Reid would come to holding someone’s hand. And Hotch appreciated the gesture in light of the behavioral quirks his junior agent had that made him so sensitive and so desirous of giving comfort when he himself was uncomfortable.

Hotch turned his head to the side, studying, analyzing Reid’s sad eyes focused on his boss’ arm and hand.

“Reid, the girls didn’t make it, did they…” Not a question.

Blinking, Spencer licked dry lips. He lingered over the sharp bone at the side of Hotch’s wrist. “You have a really prominent _triquetrum_.”

“Reid. I need to know.”

Hotch watched Spencer’s eyes close as he gave his head a single, miserable shake. “No.” It was a whisper. “But Rossi’s coming.”

Sighing, Hotch closed his eyes, too. He had other questions, but they didn’t matter now.

 

xxxxxxx

 

At times like this, J.J. envisioned herself as being made of cork.

_If you want to throw darts, missiles of anger, fury, outrageous grief at me…do it. I can take it. I’ll let you. I’ll hold onto them all and I won’t bounce them back at you. I’ll pull them out later when you’re gone. I can take it._

She held herself together with a peculiar strength all her own. Voice not just steady, but soft and compassionate. Demeanor not just sympathetic, but expressive, genuine. Hers was a presence that created a safe place for the ugliest times of unimaginable loss. The thing about J.J. was that it came naturally. She’d been born to soothe.

It was a gift. But she  couldn’t apply it to herself. It didn’t work that way.

So she absorbed the howls of animal rage, letting the parents of two tiny victims empty themselves; pour hot grief over her. And she invited more. And more. Until they were hollowed out by the surfeit of emotion. J.J. knew they would fill again and again and again over the coming days, weeks, months. But for now, for just a few hours, they were vacant enough for shock to flow in and fill the empty spaces where children used to be.

When her phone vibrated, J.J. ignored it. Her focus and commitment were total. Nothing was more important than the emotional journey whose first steps were being taken with her as escort.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Everything was turned over to the local authorities. The instructions, the remains, the ownership of horror.

It was a somber group that headed for the hospital in Grand Forks.

After Hotch had drifted off into weary, but troubled sleep, Reid had called Rossi. “He knows.”

“How much?”

“That we lost them. No survivors.”

After a beat of silence, “That’s all?”

“That’s all I knew, Rossi. That’s all I could tell him for sure. I wasn’t there.”

“It’s alright, Reid. I just want to know what we’re walking in on.” Rossi took a breath, aware the others were listening, anxious about their leader’s welfare. “How’s he doing?”

“Okay, I guess. Hard to tell.”

That alone tripped Rossi’s inner alarm. If Reid, a professional profiler, was having a difficult time reading him, then Hotch was already digging himself in; employing all the skills at his disposal to conceal his feelings so he could soldier on with no one the wiser about his inner turmoil. _He’s going back to what he knows best…hiding._

Rossi sighed. “We’ll be there soon. Just stay by him in case he wants to talk.”

“Yeah. Sure.” The total lack of enthusiasm told everyone within hearing that Reid didn’t think there was anything he could say that would help his boss.

 

xxxxxxx

 

There was no banter or quiet conversation to mask the sound of J.J.’s phone vibrating. She’d left it in her jacket pocket. Leaning against the doorframe in the backseat, the usually silent pulsing sounded like a swarm of bees. With a soft exclamation, the liaison remembered she had meant to see who’d tried to reach her while she was immersed in dealing with grief-stricken parents.

Subdued and sorrowful in the aftermath, J.J. didn’t bother checking caller ID. “Special Agent Jareau.”

Haley’s voice, strident with anger and worry, lanced out at her, audible to the entire team. “J.J.! God, at last! What’s going on? What happened to Aaron? Why didn’t anyone let me know he was hurt?”

J.J. took a moment to compose herself. After their last encounter with Haley, when she’d visibly upset Garcia, the liaison hadn’t planned on contacting her again. _Let her figure out how to get pregnant on her own. Hotch would prefer it that way anyway._ “I’m sorry, Haley, but we’ve been busy here. But…” She frowned. “…obviously someone _did_ let you know.”

“Some stranger at a hospital!” Now that she had an audience, someone who she believed was duty-bound to listen and appease her, Haley let all her fear and worry loose. “I was terrified! Stunned! And all he could tell me was that Aaron was…was... _shot_!!??” Haley’s voice rose to a wail. “J.J., what happened?!?”

Before she could respond, Rossi reached his hand around from where he sat in the front. “Give me that.” It wasn’t a request. J.J. obeyed.

He used the same commanding tone when he spoke to Hotch’s wife. “Haley. This is Dave. We’re on a case. Aaron got hurt. We’re on our way to him now. I’ll call you myself when I’ve checked on him. You’ll know more when we know more. That’s the best I can do right now.”

He closed the connection with an abrupt click, passing J.J.’s phone back to her.

A few looks were exchanged among the others. Rossi felt more than saw them, and offered what he hoped was an acceptable explanation.

“Hotch doesn’t know the details yet. He should be told before anyone else. Even his wife.”

But privately, Rossi fumed. _If she’d wanted an update on her husband’s condition, she could’ve called Hotch or the hospital directly by now. But she went for J.J. because she wanted someone to know she was upset. She wanted an audience, or to vent, or to make sure we knew we’d fallen down on the job._

He gave a gusty sigh. _I’ll have to talk to her again just to defuse her. ‘Cause God help Aaron if she takes it out on him._

 

 


	71. ...Flock Together

They huddled outside Hotch’s room, conferring in low voices with the physician on call.

“Get him checked out when you’re back home.” The doctor flashed a brief smile. “I understand you people have different criteria for sending your employees back to work than most other professions. But he should be fine.” He glanced at the grim expressions surrounding him, unsure of the reason for such somber attitudes when he was certain their comrade was going to heal without complications.

“We’ll take him off the IV tomorrow morning, and I’d like to see him walk around for a bit before we release him.” He shrugged, flipping closed the charts he’d been referencing. “Otherwise, I’ll write a prescription that should help with the pain. Shouldn’t be too bad after a couple days. Make sure he rests and doesn’t overdo stretching or lifting.” _Still no sign of gratitude that their friend, well, didn’t exactly **dodge** a bullet…but the bullet that got him could’ve done a lot worse._

The doctor folded his arms, scanning the group before him. “Any questions?”

“Can we see him?” Rossi was anxious to make his own assessment of Hotch’s condition. And it had nothing to do with physical damage.

“Sure. He’s a little groggy from the meds. Still weak from the blood loss. Just go easy on him.” The doctor sighed, accepting there was more going on here than met the eye. But he had other patients to attend. Whatever subtext was running through this group, it wasn’t his business. “I’m Dr. Adamson, if you need anything else.”

Murmured thanks rippled through the group, but their focus was already directed over the doctor’s shoulder, to the still figure that looked so pathetically vulnerable in the narrow, white bed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

They hovered, surrounding Hotch where he lay, apparently asleep; medication imposing its non-negotiable lethargy on his weakened body.

Rossi moved in closest. After a moment’s inspection, he reached a hand down to smooth one of Hotch’s eyebrows. With a small, abrupt inhale, the Unit Chief opened his eyes, taking a moment to blink himself back to full awareness.

“Dave.” It was monotone. Not welcoming or joyful, rather simple confirmation of the older man’s presence. With a blank expression, Hotch turned his head in a slow arc, noting the attendance of each team member.

Then he did what they’d all hoped he wouldn’t.

Closing his eyes, Hotch turned his face away, as far into the concealment of the pillow as he could.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Wait outside.”

Rossi’s eyes never wavered from their study of Hotch in full hiding mode. His words were soft, meant for the team in general, yet they carried an undercurrent of grave determination.

There was no argument as they filed out, but Morgan lingered in the doorway, face tragic, until Rossi looked up. Seeing the man’s torment written across his features, Dave gave his head a brief tilt, motioning the agent back in. Derek’s business with Hotch was special. And more urgent than anything the others might bring to the table.

Morgan took an unobtrusive position off to one side, well back from the other two. Rossi took the chair that had been Reid’s up until the team arrived, pulling it even closer to the bedside.

A few more silent minutes passed. Then Hotch made an abortive attempt to turn onto his side, wanting to present his back to the others, allowing him to hide even more. He was brought up short by his injury. Opioids dulled, but didn’t totally erase pain. He gave a gasp of agony, forced to fall back and remain lying on his back.

Rossi’s expression shifted. The older man had been stoking some anger; ready to confront Hotch and pull him out into the light where everyone could see whatever the man felt he needed to mask from the world. The gasp, sharp with pain, changed things. _Go easy. Remember he’s hurt. Outside as well as in. Even if it’s not life-threatening, it’s enough to bring him down, weaken him. Go easy._

“Aaron.” Rossi placed a hand on the nearest shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. When there was no acknowledgement, he sighed. _Well, maybe sterner measures are called for even if he **is** hurting._ He slid his hand to the center of Hotch’s chest, letting it rest, letting it warm, the place where he could feel both respiration and heartbeat. He tried again. “Aaron.”

“Please go away, Dave.” The voice was muffled, directed into the pillow case.

“I can’t do that. You know why.” Rossi moved his hand in the lightest, smallest of caresses, knowing it would disarm some of the defensive weaponry Hotch always seemed to carry inside, using it to keep everyone at a distance. He felt a quiver beneath his palm; a tiny amount of tension bleeding away. “C’mon. Don’t make me feel like everything we’ve talked about has been wasted effort, Aaron. You’ll make an old man very sad.” He tapped Hotch’s chest with the tip of one finger. “C’mon…”

Hotch didn’t move, but sorrow made his voice drop lower. “This isn’t about you and me, Dave.”

Rossi sighed, withdrawing his hand, realizing his friend couldn’t be cajoled so easily. “Alright. Tell me what it’s about.”

Enough silence fell that Rossi wondered if Hotch had succumbed to the medication again, drifting into drugged sleep. Then the words came. Still muffled, spoken into the non-judgmental safety of the pillow.

“How bad was it?”

Rossi glanced at Morgan. Both men knew what their leader was asking. They’d vowed to do their best to keep him in ignorance. Still, Rossi wouldn’t lie. “Bad. It was bad.”

“God.” Hotch tried to burrow deeper into the bedding.

Rossi’s sigh was resigned. “You might as well know there was nothing you could have done. They’d been dead for days.”

“What did he do to them?”

Rossi hesitated, but finally… “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Why? So you can torture yourself with it? You’re not in enough pain yet? Want some more?”

He wasn’t happy with Hotch’s next question, but Rossi consoled himself that at least the discussion had switched gears; focus shifting from the little victims.

“How’d I get hurt? What’d I do?”

Before Rossi could answer, Morgan stepped forward, bracing himself for whatever Boss-man might throw at him. “You didn’t do anything, Hotch. It was me.” He took a steadying breath. “I shot you.”

Finally it was enough incentive for Hotch to turn his head from the pillow, seeking out the eyes of both his teammates. “Shot me?” His hand strayed down to his waist, as though verifying the existence of a bullet wound.

“He had to. I would’ve done the same, but probably a lot less skillfully.” When Hotch still looked confused, Rossi explained the situation and the split-second decision forced upon Morgan.

Confronted with his leader’s eyes, large and mournful in his unguarded, medicated state, Derek stood over the bed, looking down at the body he’d injured. _For nothing. No one saved. Just more damage done to amuse Elijah Wesson._ His gaze was drawn to the bandage swathing Hotch’s side. The flesh was bruising; livid, midnight blue beginning to spread past the edge of sterile gauze bound to the wound. Without thinking, Morgan reached a hand toward it.

Hotch grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Let me see, man. I need to see what I did to you.”

At last, Hotch’s familiar scowl fell into place. Rossi rejoiced in secret to see it; so much better than the disjointed hurt and sorrow they’d been dealing with up to now. Hotch made an effort to sound stern in spite of his physical condition, drawing on reserves he really didn’t have.

“Why? Want to punish yourself for stepping up and doing the best job you could?” Hotch’s brief rally was more than his body could sustain. He slumped back, panting lightly. “I’m not letting you see anything, Morgan.”

Rossi’s grin was sly. “Tell you boys what…Morgan, you promise Hotch you’ll let the whole shot-you-in-the-back thing go, if he’ll promise to walk away from this last case; let us handle all the loose ends and tie them up in a nice neat bow that he’ll _never_ …” Rossi caught and held eye contact with the fast-fading Unit Chief. “… _ever_ try to open.”

Morgan saw what Rossi was trying to do. As much as he wanted to know the full extent of what he’d inflicted on the man he’d sworn to protect, he’d abandon the quest if it would benefit Hotch emotionally; if it would ensure that he never learn what those children had suffered.

Hotch watched his second-in-command. As much as he wanted to know the particulars of this case, of what the unsub had done, he’d sacrifice that need if it would keep one of the best men he’d ever worked with from slipping into a pool of undeserved guilt.

“Shake on it, you two.” Rossi held his breath until their hands met, gripping for a fraction longer than necessary, communicating mutual care and respect, as well as a promise.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Haley’s been trying to reach you.”

Rossi remained at Hotch’s bedside after Morgan joined the rest of the team milling about the hallways.

He’d debated bringing up anything more for Hotch to deal with.

The man looked exhausted, emotionally drained. Even if he’d promised not to delve into the fates of the girls they couldn’t save, Rossi knew the case would be playing on an endless loop through Hotch’s mind. The combination of weakness and painkillers severely diminished one’s ability to compartmentalize.

And although Rossi knew it wasn’t his place to criticize another man’s spouse, he wasn’t sure speaking to Haley would be a comforting experience. Not when he recalled the exchange she’d had with J.J. on the drive over. So even though he knew he shouldn’t interfere, Rossi tried to nudge Hotch in the direction he thought would be best.

“If you like, I can call her; let her know you’ll be home sometime late tomorrow.”

“No. No. She’s worried. I’ll talk to her. I want to.”

Rossi couldn’t help thinking there was more of resignation than desire in Hotch’s tone.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch’s goodnight to the team was a little reserved.

Aside from Morgan and Rossi, there was still what felt like unfinished business standing between the Unit Chief and his other colleagues. Both sides knew discussion was necessary, but the time wasn’t right. Accosting Hotch now, even if it was to apologize and explain and ask for forgiveness for butting into his personal life, would catch him at a low point.

There was a tacit understanding that the subject would be revisited once they were on their home turf and Hotch was feeling better. Physically, anyway. No one expected the spectre of this last case to leave their boss unscathed, even if he didn’t pursue it any further.

Rossi had retrieved Hotch’s phone from the bag of personal possessions taken from him prior to surgery. Hiding his reluctance, he left it on the nightstand within easy reach.

“Get some rest, Hotch. We’ll be back tomorrow to see how you’re doing. Call me if you want to talk or need me to come over before then.”

“Thanks, Dave.” His voice was ragged. Once he touched bases with Haley, he’d be able to let the meds work and take him away for some much needed oblivion.

When Rossi left, Hotch called home.

“Aaron! Oh, God, I’ve been so worried! What happened? Are you alright? Do you want me to come to you?”

The deluge of questions was more than he could answer at the moment. He still needed time to come to terms with some of the answers.

“I’m fine. I got hurt and they had to patch me up some, but…I’m okay.”

There was a pause while Haley considered his words. She already knew he’d been shot and Dave had sounded on edge when he’d spoken to her; something she attributed to being worried about Aaron. And… _shot!_ How could he downplay it? _She_ certainly wouldn’t!

And then some of the things she discovered about her husband’s past fell into place, forming a theory that cried out to be explored.

“Oh, Aaron, honey…is it so easy for you to accept being hurt…being _shot_ …because of how you were raised? Is that why you _keep_ getting hurt? Because of the way your father…well… _you_ know… Is that why?”

Miles away, Hotch went numb. And it had nothing to do with the painkillers in his IV.

 


	72. Mourning Dove

“Honey? Are you there? Aaron?”

Haley’s inquiries morphed from concerned to aggravated. She could hear him breathing. Granted, it sounded a little labored and ragged, but why wasn’t he answering her?

“Haley, I…I can’t talk about this right now…I…”

“Aaron? Aaron, why not? What’s wrong?” She gave an annoyed, little gasp. “Honey, I love you no matter what your father did to you!”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Clara Sandler, the night nurse, was making her rounds, checking on patients who should be either asleep or at least resting quietly. As she neared the doorway of the room with the FBI agent, she glanced at the notes left for her by her daytime counterpart. She was instructed to check Mr. Hotchner’s temperature periodically to ensure his wound was free of infection. She was also given some leeway with his pain medication. If he needed a little extra to get through his first night, she was allowed to administer it.

Silent on her thick-soled shoes, she stopped just outside his room when she heard the patient’s voice.

“I…how did you…why…”

It didn’t make much sense, but then Clara was used to the meanderings that frequently accompanied medication. Still, the man sounded weak and upset. Her lips pressed together into a firm line.

No one upset patients on Clara Sandler’s watch.

Stepping into the room, she took note of the phone in Mr. Hotchner’s hand. More importantly, her experienced eye cataloged his fatigue and emotional distress. With no more thought than she would have spared a ten-year-old child caught reading past his bedtime with a flashlight under the covers, Clara pried the offending device from her charge’s hand.

She knew she was overstepping her bounds, but patient welfare came first. And last. And always.

One hand pressed Mr. Hotchner back to a reclining position; the other pressed the phone to her ear.

“Hello? To whom am I speaking, please?”

A short pause, redolent with shock at being interrupted, and then… “You’re speaking to _Mrs_. Aaron Hotchner. Who do you think you are intruding on my husband’s private call? I’d like your name and that of your supervisor.”

Clara’s warm chuckle couldn’t have irritated Haley more. “Well, Mrs. Hotchner… _Mr_. Hotchner needs his rest. It’s past visiting hours and phone privileges are at _my_ discretion during the night.” She’d been using what she thought of as her ‘telling-it-like-it-is’ voice. Once she thought she’d made her point, Clara adopted a more congenial tone. “Your husband will be able to give you a much more satisfying conversation tomorrow when he’s recovered a bit more.” She glanced at the patient’s eyes, surprised, but encouraged, to see what looked like gratitude in them.

“As for my name, it’s Clara Sandler. I suppose you could consider my supervisor to be the Chief of Surgery. He’s the one who left instructions for me to ensure your husband has a restful night. He’ll be discharged tomorrow as long as Doctor is pleased with his progress. So, if you want Mr. Hotchner back sooner rather than later, it would be best to say goodnight to him now…”

The click on the other end of the line halted Clara mid-speech. She shrugged. It was difficult to predict reactions of a loved one whose spouse had run up against violent injury. Putting the phone in the nightstand drawer, she turned her attention to the man watching her every move.

“I’m sorry if I seem abrupt, Mr. Hotchner, but orders are orders and the Queen of England herself wouldn’t be given any leeway when it comes to making sure you get what you need. Which is sleep.” She did a quick scan of his temperature, noting the happily normal reading. “Now…do you need something to help you relax? Doctor says I can help you, if you…”

Clara stopped her brisk chatter. In the subdued light, she’d almost missed it.

One large, slow tear trembled on Mr. Hotchner’s lashes. As she watched, it spilled over, tracking a lonely path down the man’s gaunt cheek and straight into his nurse’s heart.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch slept.

The night nurse had made the decision herself to help him do so with a pharmaceutical nudge. She’d sat with him in near silence as the drug took effect, only humming to herself when it seemed this strange, sad man wasn’t inclined to talk. She wasn’t surprised when she realized the melody that came to the fore was a lullaby. Something about this patient cried out for cuddling of the motherly sort.

Afterwards, Clara studied Mr. Hotchner’s chart more closely.

 _An FBI agent. Shot in the line of duty._ She shook her head. _Isn’t it always the way…the toughest ones are the most in need of simple hugs and kindness._

She sighed as she left the room. There was nothing she could do about the woman who’d claimed to be Mr. Hotchner’s wife. If she complained to the administration, so be it. Clara would stand behind her decision to end that call.

But it saddened her that the man’s wife had said something upsetting when all he’d really needed was comforting nonsense. Like a lullaby.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In spite of the previous day’s handshake and promises, Morgan was still in need of…something.

He left word for the others that he was going to the hospital early and would meet them there. He wasn’t quite sure why or what he hoped to accomplish. On the way over he admitted to himself, with a wry grin, that he just wanted to be near Hotch. It would satisfy some inner need to make sure his boss would recover from what Morgan realized was almost a year of bad luck.

 _Well, not ‘luck,’ really. More like poorly-conceived, mismanaged, friendly fire._ He winced at the unfortunate term. He was the only one who could accept _that_ burden with literal accuracy.

In the hallway approaching Hotch’s door, Morgan heard an unknown man’s voice seemingly at odds with the Unit Chief’s. Morgan sped up, entering the room on a wave of wary suspicion.

 Hotch and the orderly standing over him fell silent, both sets of eyes focusing on the abrupt appearance of a newcomer. Morgan raised his chin, subjecting the scrub-suited aide to narrow regard.

“Hey.”

As a greeting it fell short. But as a challenge, it spoke volumes. _Who are you and what are you doing to Boss-man, chump?_ Morgan might have flexed his muscles a bit more than necessary, but his heart was in the right place. He needed to re-establish his position as Hotch’s protector.

“Hey.” Hotch’s response was subdued, but had a trifle more energy than on the previous day.

Morgan moved closer, attention on the orderly. “So, what’s goin’ on here?” He didn’t sense any belligerence in the man. An inner voice told him that Hotch was likely the one being difficult. Morgan hoped so: it would be a sure sign that the Unit Chief retained his alpha spirit regardless of the insult and injury thrown at him.

The orderly allowed himself a sigh of resignation. He was used to friends and family coming down on the patient’s side without even knowing the score. He gave Morgan a half-smile. “Mr. Hotchner here doesn’t seem to want any help getting out and about.” He turned back to take stock of the uncooperative patient. “He’s pretty independent for someone who had surgery less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Morgan bit his lip to keep from grinning as he watched the two men staring each other down.

“I can dress myself,” Hotch gritted.

Before the orderly could wade in any deeper, Morgan spoke up. “I’ve got this. If he needs help, I’ll be here for him. Okay?”

“Well…” The aide gave the patient a considering look. “Alright. Doc’s orders are to let him walk out to the courtyard, s’long as it doesn’t take too much out of him. If it does, he might be staying another night.”

“Got it.” Morgan gave a curt nod and stepped closer to where Hotch sat on the side of the bed, indicating he was taking over and the orderly could remove himself from this difficult patient’s presence. He waited until they were alone before addressing Hotch directly.

“So how you feeling, man?”

“I’m okay.” But Hotch’s movements as he twisted to pick up the sweatshirt retrieved from the go-bag the team had brought with them on yesterday’s visit, gave the lie to his words.

Morgan watched him proceed with slow deliberation, struggling to ignore muscles that had stiffened overnight. When he saw the man’s lips whiten, pressed together in tight denial of pain, Morgan couldn’t stand by any longer. Stepping in front of seated Hotch, using both hands, he cupped his boss’ shoulders. Gentle, insistent pressure turned him to face front once more.

“Hotch, c’mon. It’s me.” He spoke to a head bent in stubborn refusal to admit weakness. It was a head covered in cowlicks; undignified souvenirs of a restless night. “Who you think you’re tryin’ to fool, huh?”

“Need to do this myself.”

“Why? So you can punish yourself a little more?” Both men were aware Morgan was paraphrasing, throwing the words Hotch had said regarding guilt feelings right back at him. “Besides, don’t you wanna be dressed and ready when the others get here? Make them think you’re still on top? Do a little alpha-dog dance?”

That made Hotch chuckle. Which made Hotch wince. Which made Morgan buzz for a nurse and ask for a heating pad or some balm for his sore, bruised boss. The application of which broke the ice and allowed Morgan to recapture the feeling that he could make a good difference in Hotch’s well-being, even if was only to rub lotion into the parts he couldn’t reach himself. Which let Hotch lower his guard enough to accept that even if things were rocky right now, he could still depend on his team.

By the time the others arrived, sweat-suited Hotch was taking his first steps down the hall, leaning on his strong and steady second-in-command.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Realizing this was a sorely-needed bonding moment for Hotch and Morgan, the rest of the team held back after a few murmured ‘good morning’s.

Mention had been made of a stroll to the courtyard, so the two men followed directions with slow, steady steps. It was a peculiar procession that garnered more than a few curious looks. Hotch accepted Morgan’s support, the rest of the team trailing after them like an entourage; keeping their distance, but observing every gesture with profilers’ intense concentration.

Hotch was doing a good job presenting a stoic façade, but Morgan could feel occasional trembles and hitches that he began to think had more to do with repressed emotion than abused musculature. When they reached the doors to the courtyard, both stopped, taking in the view of plants and artfully placed seating surrounding a partially obscured waterfall and fountain.

“Wow. This is nice.” Morgan took a deep breath, noting the ever-present hospital smells of disinfectant and stress were absent. He felt Hotch do the same, but stifle a whimper when he forgot that expanding his lungs to full capacity was a painful prospect at the moment. “Take it easy, man. Baby steps and little breaths.”

Hotch nodded, then pushed away from Morgan’s grip. “I want to go out there and be alone for a while.”

“O-k-a-y…” Derek was reluctant to let go, but as long as the Unit Chief moved with care, he seemed to be alright. Morgan watched him move deep into what was essentially a manmade grotto, disappearing behind verdant foliage in the direction of the waterfall.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hearing Hotch wanted some solitude, the team lingered at the courtyard entrance. After ten minutes had passed, a few looks were exchanged.

“Maybe we should check on him.” J.J. was craning around in a vain effort to locate their leader without intruding on his space.

“I kinda wondered if he was holding something in.” Morgan’s brows drew down into a worried crease.

In silent, mutual consent, four profilers and one liaison began to infiltrate the peaceful, landscaped oasis.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch found a place that seemed perfect.

Plant life hid him from view. The sound of rushing water also provided necessary camouflage for any noise he might make.

Taking a seat, he stared at the hypnotic movement of the falls. When he was sure Morgan wasn’t following him, he closed his eyes…

…and let go.

He was too deep into emotional release to control the sobs that hurt his wound terribly, but wouldn’t stop. He mourned the girls he couldn’t save. He cried for the unfairness of Morgan’s guilt, and for the emotional and physical pain that seemed to find him no matter where he went. And he cried for the return of childhood memories of abuse that he’d hoped would never be an issue again.

But Haley’d found them and dragged them into the light. And now he had to wonder how much she knew, and if it would alter her feelings for him. It seemed his father was still wielding power over his son’s life.

Hotch tried to keep the sobs quiet and shallow, hoping they would stop soon.

When a hand landed on his shoulder, he thought _Rossi…_

When another, and another, and another, and more found places to hug and hold; when he was drawn in and compressed until it felt as though the broken places inside him were being splinted and bolstered, he didn’t need to look.

Hotch’s team surrounded him, wrapping him tight, hoping to share or absorb or overwhelm whatever was tearing him apart.


	73. Bluebird

Hotch’s emotional tsunami ebbed.

Sensitive to their leader’s dislike of taking center stage, of having his inner workings put on public display, the team withdrew. By silent consent, Rossi remained behind, one hand resting between Hotch’s shoulder blades, maintaining a connection.

The entire time, Hotch had remained bent over, head down, elbows braced on knees. His only movement now was to bury his face in his hands. His voice was strained, tear-thickened. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

Rossi sighed. “Yeah. I’m sure you are, and we’ll get to that, but first…I gotta ask, what set this off?”

A low groan preceded the answer. “I dunno. Nothing. Everything. Just…I’m sorry.”

Dave waited. He watched the mesmerizing passage of water, falling from the top of a fabricated cliff to the churning froth at its base. Something about the repetitive flow and the accompanying white noise made his perspective alter, as he supposed was the grotto’s purpose. On the one hand it was calming, but on the other it made him furious that even in this space engineered for maximum peace, Hotch was patently miserable. Eyes roving over the landscape, he waited for Hotch to make the next move or say the next word. His glance lingered on intermittent, small, gray cubes, unobtrusive cameras placed at intervals.

 _Of course. Hospital security._ He sighed and decided not to mention that Hotch’s breakdown was probably on tape somewhere in the bowels of the building.

At last he felt the shoulders beneath his touch give a final, resigned heave…and stiffen. Hotch sat up, but still refused eye contact. Rossi didn’t force it. The two men sat side by side, pretending to be occupied by the scenery before them.

Again, Hotch murmured, “Sorry.”

Rossi deployed a brief, one-armed hug. “Yeah. Me, too.” He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, lulled by the grotto’s rhythm, his voice going low, passionless and undemanding. “When I left you last night, I thought you’d get some rest, heal a little, and feel better when morning came.” He shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.”

A sidelong glance at Hotch’s profile told him waiting for a response would be fruitless. The man was working at resuming his game-face, a façade with all the emotional expression of chipped flint. Rossi decided to err on the side of caution. He wouldn’t push. Yet.

“How’s the side feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up.” And after a beat, just to be sure… “That’s an order.”

Rossi saw an in and went for it. “W-e-l-l…seems to me that when the Unit Chief is sidelined by injury, then he’s not in charge anymore. S-o-o-o…you can’t really give me an order, Aaron.” The older man shook his head, venting a mock- regretful sigh. “S-o-o-o…the only way to get me to shut up is to be the one who _does_ all the talking. Only way to stop me is to make it impossible for me to get a word in edgewise. Only way to get any peace is to…”

“Okay!...okay…” Hotch’s head bowed again. He contemplated his hands, fingers twining in his lap.

Rossi continued watching him out of the corner of one eye. The silence stretched. Finally, Dave leaned to the side, bumping shoulders with the younger man. His voice dropped its bantering tone, adopting instead one that was warm and consoling. “You know, Aaron, sometimes you just can’t keep the tears inside. It’s alright to be weak. Especially when you’re injured. And sad. I know this case got to you. It got to all of us, but we didn’t have the extra burden of being shot to contend with, so…”

Hotch interrupted. “That’s not it, Dave.”

Turning, Rossi reared back a little, the better to view the man beside him. “Then the only other thing unaccounted for since I last saw you, is that call you were going to make. That it?”

“I guess.” It was only two words, but the undercurrent of inner turmoil was unmistakable.

Facing front again, but not really seeing the scenery before him anymore, Rossi took another breath, preparing himself for something he was sure would be ugly. “Something with Haley?” Peripheral vision caught the single, sad nod of the dark head that still refused to look up. “She mad at you?”

“No.”

Rossi debated, accessing the vast library of transgressions that three failed marriages had bequeathed him. There was so much to draw from, it was daunting. So, he began the process of elimination. “You mad at _her_?”

For a moment he thought he might have had the inestimable luck of hitting on the heart of the matter with his first try. Hotch hesitated. But then, “Not really.” And Rossi realized the heart might be more complicated, requiring more than a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

“Alright. Let’s see…” Again he called upon his considerable experience. _God, it could be anything. It’s like trying to pull a snail from its shell…when the snail has discovered the uses of super-glue._ “Look, Aaron…we could keep playing twenty questions and be here all day. There are an endless number of things you could have done to tick off your wife, and vice versa. But believe me: I’ve been there, done that. So…”

Hotch’s interruption was soft, but there was some bite to it. It was fueled by something bordering on resentment. “No, you _haven’t_ been there. No one has.”

It brought Rossi up short, but it also clued him in. “It’s unique to _you_...” He didn’t have to ponder long. “Oh, no…” He knew there was one area of Hotch’s life that was never, _ever_ spoken of. He didn’t know the details, and could only make guesses based on their long acquaintance, but he could imagine the effect it would have on Hotch if someone, _any_ one, had mined deeply enough to hit the thing he’d worked his whole adult life to bury.

“Oh, no…” He removed the hand that had been pressing against Hotch’s back, rubbing his own beard instead; his private tell when it came to anxiety or indecision. This was tricky, treacherous ground. Help could be construed as intrusion. But that emotional storm whose effects were still visible in reddened eyes and tear-congested breathing, had to be addressed. There was simply no one else available to help Hotch through. Rossi’s hand, when it returned to the younger man’s back was tentative. It lacked the conviction of their easy friendship, because Dave was about to enter a place into which he hadn’t been invited. No one had.

“Aaron, I know you think there are things you should keep private, and I respect that. But if Haley touched something that hurts _this_ much, then it’s not really hidden. It’s building into something explosive.” Rossi paused, hoping the gentle ambience of the setting would make Hotch more receptive to opening up. “Can you talk about it? To me?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Okay. Understandable.” Frowning, Rossi searched for alternative paths that might access Hotch’s dark corners in a less direct manner. “Can we talk about Haley?”

Silence, which meant that, too, might be a delicate subject at the moment.

Rossi felt the first stirrings of frustration. “I don’t know how to help you, Aaron. Tell me what you need.”

It was slow in coming, and hollow-sounding when it did.

“Permission to give up.”

Dave didn’t know whether it was the words themselves or the dismal, defeated tone in which they’d been uttered that chilled him. He almost whispered his response.

“Tell me what you’re fighting and maybe I can help. But, please, Aaron, whatever it is, don’t let it win.”

Rossi was relieved when his friend seemed to come to some sort of resolution. Hotch sat up straighter. He took a slow, cleansing breath, releasing it with control that would have pleased a yoga master. His face didn’t look like granite anymore. Rather, it had the blank passivity of deep introspection. Or of someone who no longer saw the point of fighting. His voice was subdued.

“It’s like this. All my life I’ve tried to leave some things behind. Time alone should have taken care of it. But here I am, and all it took was a few words from someone who loves me, to bring it all back. And I haven’t left it behind at all. It’s all around me; and in me; and it controls me.” Finally, Hotch turned, looking into Rossi’s concerned eyes. “I’ve lost, Dave. I’m never going to be free. I’m tired, and it hurts. And I want to give up. It’s as simple as that. I’ve done my best. I want someone to tell me it’s okay to lay down and rest now.”

Rossi studied the face of his best friend, eyes flicking over it, making rapid, sad calculations. _Whatever it is, Haley didn’t mean it to be painful. And it’s something he hasn’t shared with her, thinking he could use silence to defeat it. Which is exactly the wrong way to go. It’s like a fungus, growing in the dark, getting stronger because it’s unchallenged. And based on what I know of him, I have a pretty good idea of what it is._

“Aaron. I want you to listen and, even if you don’t agree, I want you to hold the words inside you and give them a chance to take root.” Hotch sighed, but nodded, watching with eyes that lacked both light and interest.

Rossi cleared his throat and leaned in, aiming what he had to say at his target. “I’ve known you for a long time now. Before I mentored you into the BAU, I watched you, studied you, even did a little research on you.” Hotch’s brows rose. Rossi took it as a good sign: he was paying attention.

“I wanted to be sure you were the right kind of agent to become a profiler. So _I_ profiled _you_. And before you were offered a position here, so did a number of other people.” Hotch swallowed, eyes growing darker with apprehension.

“There was some discussion about your past, although we didn’t delve into it the way some departments might have. We watched you, and then postulated what might have made such a man.” Rossi found he had to pause, feeling…too much…to deliver the dispassionate summary he thought would do Hotch the most good. He braced himself for whatever reaction might come.

“What we saw was a man familiar with pain. It didn’t matter how he came by it. It was the basis for his empathy and his endurance. It had formed a center of strength in him that dovetailed with an otherwise kind, compassionate nature. We found you to be a gentle man with a core of steel.

“It was very obvious to all of us old, wizened, experienced judges of character that what might have ruined others…created unsubs, even…had been transformed by virtue of your natural traits, into something remarkable.” A small smile of fond remembrance touched Rossi’s lips as he shook his head.

“I wanted you in the BAU, Aaron. But by the time we were done analyzing you, we… _all_ of us… _had_ to have you.” He touched two fingers to Hotch’s chin, an affectionate command to pay attention.

“I think you’ve been, if not happy, then at least fulfilled here. So I want you to take a breath and realize that at this moment in time, you’re physically injured, emotionally distraught, and personally challenged. It doesn’t get much worse than that, my friend. But, if no one’s ever told you…if it makes a difference…your pain is also your gift.

“And maybe it should be shared instead of hoarded. And maybe you should find a way to value it, instead of running from it.”

_But it’s not time to give in to it. You absolutely, unequivocally, do **not** have permission to lay down by the side of the road and rest._


	74. Nest Arrest

Dr. Eric Adamson, Chief of Surgery, was reviewing his files.

He’d come in early, knowing several of his patients were scheduled for release. Adamson made it a point to do one last check before allowing the discharge process to move forward. He was a very careful man. He’d seen what could happen if someone was sent home and either engaged in foolish post-op activity, or just plain didn’t take care of himself. Mostly, he cared about his patients’ welfare, but part of his wariness stemmed from the proliferation of malpractice suits, the skyrocketing cost of malpractice insurance, and the wealth of TV commercials urging people to contact hungry attorneys for a chance to dip into the bottomless cauldron of settlement money that might be applicable to various surgical procedures and materials gone wrong. And once things _did_ go wrong, it was hard to prove patient, rather than surgeon, culpability.

In response to a culture gone litigation-happy, Adamson always chose to keep a patient for a little longer, if he had any doubts whatsoever.

So far, things looked good. Today’s group seemed like sensible, generally healthy people who could be relied upon to follow-up on their respective procedures with diligent self-care.

Adamson paged through the notes left for him by the head of the night nursing shift. He smiled. Clara Sandler was a rare breed whom he felt privileged to have on his staff. She went a step beyond the usual notations about medication and vitals. She always added a few sentences of character analysis. At first, Adamson had ignored them; they were only opinion after all; too subjective to count for much in the world of data-worshipping medical science. They were more like little essays done by someone with too much time during the long, quiet hours. Adamson considered Clara’s notes to be diversions; her way of passing the time.

Then he began to understand their value.

Nighttime was when secrets were whispered, when fears peeped forth. After dark the daytime veneers of bravado or dependence slipped away. With defenses lowered and vulnerabilities exposed, Clara saw a truer picture of a patient’s status. She distilled it down into a few pithy, suggestive lines that Adamson could take or leave. More and more, he took them quite seriously.

He hesitated over the notes attached to the chart of Mr. Aaron Hotchner. He frowned.

Apparently, the FBI agent had had a restless night. There’d been some emotional upset that the nurse had stepped in to handle. And it was Nurse Clara Sandler’s opinion that the man could benefit by being subjected to ‘some enforced peace and quiet before enjoying a reunion with his family.’

Adamson’s brows reversed direction when his computer beeped at him, bringing up the image of the Chief of Security.

“Hey, Doc, you got a bunch of FBI agents hanging around up there?”

The surgeon glanced over his shoulder, just in case a team of black suits lurked behind him, visible to security’s webcam. “N-o-o-o…can’t say I do. Got one who took a bullet, but he’s just one guy. Why?”

“Check this out…” The Chief of Security’s image blinked out, replaced by an oblique, overhead view of the central courtyard with its sculpted waterfall and lush foliage. As Adamson watched, his patient, Mr. Hotchner, made a ginger way to a seat in one of the more secluded areas. He was motionless for several minutes, but then, audio wasn’t necessary to know the man was wrenched by sobs.

The surgeon rubbed his jaw as the flock of agents he’d met yesterday, identifiable by the guns gracing their hips, descended on his patient, surrounding and enveloping him. Eventually, they scattered, except for the oldest of them.

Adamson watched until the two men left. At that point, the Security Chief’s image returned.

“That happened earlier this morning. Thought you should know.”

“Thanks.” The surgeon nodded his gratitude. “Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.”

Adamson’s monitor switched back to its usual desktop graphics of a snowy ski resort, the doctor’s favorite getaway. He leaned back in his chair, considering. With a sigh, he separated Mr. Hotchner’s file from the others.

_Clara called another right on the nose. ‘Enforced’ rest. Sorry, Mr. FBI-man, but you’re going to be our guest for a little while longer._

 

xxxxxxx

 

The hallway outside Mr. Hotchner’s room was crawling with FBI agents.

At least that’s the way it seemed to Dr. Adamson as he strode through their ranks, head up, the hem of his white lab coat flapping in his wake. It was how he moved when he wanted to broadcast confidence and authority. In truth, he didn’t know what to expect when he broke the news to Mr. Hotchner that his departure would be delayed. Although he knew his patient’s body intimately, he didn’t have a clue about the man’s personality.

But he did seem fragile, judging by Clara’s note and the security footage. Adamson wanted a chance to make his own assessment. It wouldn’t do to ignore  the emotional health of a law enforcement agent with access to weapons. Plus, what he’d seen made him curious. This whole group had presented themselves as stoic when he’d briefed them on Hotchner’s condition. He wondered if their leader was the exception. _No._ He shook his head. _The guy was **shot**. He’s allowed to have a bad day._

Adamson gave the patient’s door a light tap, and entered.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan tried to pull a fast one.

Knowing that Hotch would be discharged later that day, he made sure he was present to lend a helping hand with getting the Unit Chief ready. The primary duty being helping him pack his go-bag and making sure he was dressed comfortably for the flight home.

Hotch was still sore from the wound, of course. His muscles and frame had also been punished when he’d been flung to the ground by the bullet’s impact. The uncontrolled contractions that accompanied the earlier crying jag hadn’t done him any favors either.

So Morgan slipped in even before Rossi to tender his assistance. His plan might have worked, but when he pretended to adjust the waistband on Hotch’s sweats, he bent a little too close and his hand lingered a little too long, moving the fabric away to grant his prying eyes a better view.

“Morgan!” Hotch’s voice lashed out. “We had a deal! We shook on it, for God’s sake!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You tried!” Hotch’s body may have been functioning at half-power, but his scowl was back on track. He trained it on his junior agent. “Get out.”

Morgan’s jaw set in a stubborn clench. “You need help, man.” He was very careful to keep his eyes locked on his leader’s, although it was a struggle to prevent himself from glancing toward the gauze-covered wound. What little he’d seen made him think the combined bruising from bullet and surgery had spread, blackening Hotch’s flesh well past the borders of the bandage. It was almost a compulsion for Morgan to want to stare at it and punish himself with a guilty dose of pain. **_I_** _did that. **I** hurt Boss-man._

The two men were ramping up to a staring contest when there came a tap at the door. It opened, admitting the surgeon who’d patched Hotch up. He hesitated when he sensed tension in the room.

“What’s going on?” Adamson looked from one to the other.

“Nothing.” He might have believed it, but, said in unison, like two recalcitrant schoolboys, it was an unconvincing response.

“I’m getting ready to leave; that’s all.” Hotch swayed slightly, the confrontation with Morgan had taken a little more energy than he could spare.

“And I was just gonna help him.” Morgan sounded almost sulky, as though it would be a terrible injustice to suspect him of anything else…like sneaking a look at Hotch’s injury. He might have pulled it off if Rossi hadn’t come through the doorway, taken in the scene and come to a conclusion about Morgan’s motives, based on long acquaintance with both men.

Rossi glanced around the room, nodding a greeting at the surgeon. “Get out Derek. No peeking at Hotch. I’ll help him, if he needs it.”

Morgan tried to cover his ignominious exit with a sigh worthy of a misunderstood martyr. It fooled no one.

Privacy intact, Hotch turned back to the bed where his bag waited. “Thanks for everything, doc. I…”

“Mr. Hotchner, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word.” Adamson glanced at Rossi, wondering if he should ask the older man to leave. He recognized him from the security feed as the one who’d stayed with his patient the longest when he was breaking down in the courtyard. When Rossi crossed to Hotch and placed a paternal hand on his shoulder, the doctor decided his presence wouldn’t be an obstacle, and might even make things easier.

Both agents were regarding him with growing anxiety; doctors rarely brought good news when they looked as concerned as Adamson did. He hurried to lay any fears to rest. Worry was the last thing this patient needed.

“First, let me take a look at my handiwork there.” The surgeon pointed his chin toward Hotch’s side. When Hotch began to pull the hem of his t-shirt up, the doctor’s words stopped him. “Lie down instead. You look as though you could use a little rest anyway.”

Rossi and Hotch exchanged glances, sensing a subtext. But the Unit Chief complied, letting Rossi help ease him onto the bed still mussed from his restless night. With slow, gentle fingers, Adamson detached the surgical tape holding the bandage in place. He bent to inspect the sutures on the wound itself, frowning at the extensive bruising. When he spoke, his tone was quiet, a murmur that could lull away a patient’s anxiety.

“Looks alright. So…how’re you feeling otherwise, Mr. Hotchner?”

Hotch was in full profiler mode, studying the doctor’s face with professional intensity, knowing he wanted to talk about something other than physical pain. “I’m okay.”

“Hmmmm.” Adamson prodded around the edges of the darkened flesh, keeping a surreptitious watch on his patient’s expression, noting winces he tried to hide.

Rossi had been standing by, eyes tracking the doctor’s movements. “Is something wrong, doc?”

“No. No, everything looks good. But…” He began replacing the gauze bandage, carefully reattaching the tape. “… I’d like to keep your friend here another night.”

“What?” Hotch’s eyes widened with alarm. He had a full plate waiting for him back in Quantico: reports and incoming cases… _and issues…and Haley…and things I don’t even want to think about but have to…_

Rossi crossed his arms, an uneasy suspicion connected to the remote cameras he’d seen in the grotto beginning to form. “You don’t think he’d rest easier at home in his own bed?”

“Well, you boys are based in Virginia, right?” Both agents nodded. “I’d like to see him a little stronger before he travels.” Giving the bandage a final smooth, Adamson stood. “So take it easy; rest and we’ll see how things look tomorrow.” He noted the wary look in the older man’s eyes and tried to lighten it with a brief smile. “And you can bring him anything he wants in the way of food. Except alcohol; wouldn’t mix with the pain meds too well.”

He moved to the door, looking back at the slightly bewildered face of his patient. “Rest, Mr. Hotchner. Think of it as a mini-vacation.”

Once in the hall, the surgeon dispensed professionally noncommittal smiles to the contingent of lingering feds. He almost made it to the nurse’s station when he heard someone calling after him. He wasn’t surprised when he turned to find the older agent, the one who seemed to assume an almost familial role to Mr. Hotchner closing the distance between them.

Rossi kept his voice low in deference to the courtesy generally exercised in hospital settings.

“Doctor, he’s strong enough to travel. What’s this about?”

Shrugging, Adamson expelled a small sigh. “I think he needs rest; some time to get himself together before he has to confront anything stressful.” The agent’s dark gaze wouldn’t let him off so easily. Checking around to be sure of privacy; that anything he said was respectful of doctor-patient confidentiality, Adamson explained.

“I know about your episode with Mr. Hotchner in our courtyard earlier today. I also have my night nurse’s report that says he had some emotional upheaval last night related to a phone call that might have been his wife. I don’t know his personal situation, but I _do_ know that in his current condition, he won’t handle stress well.” The surgeon glanced around once more. “I trust my staff to watch over our patients when I’m not around. One of my nurses, an unusually perceptive woman, recommended Mr. Hotchner be subjected to ‘enforced’ rest. I’m taking her up on that suggestion.”

Rossi saw nothing deceptive in the man; only genuine professionalism. “Thanks, doc.” He nodded, turning back toward the rest of the team gathered outside Hotch’s room.

Prentiss was the first to question things. “What was that all about?”

Rossi glanced back, seeing the man in the white coat check a chart and enter another room.

“That, children, was about an ‘unusually perceptive’ recommendation.”

“We’re not going home?” Reid asked what all of them were wondering.

“Not just yet.” Rossi looked at his teammates. “Use that time to write up your reports. I want them done, signed off, and submitted by tomorrow. I don’t want them out in plain view on the flight home where Hotch might ‘accidentally’ see them.” He gave Morgan a reproving look. “And no more ‘accidental’ peeking from you either.”

As the team dispersed to hotel rooms, cafes, or wherever else they chose to spend the rest of the day, Rossi turned back toward Hotch’s room. Outside the door, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

_I’ll go along with ‘enforced’ rest. But the source of part of Aaron’s stress isn’t going to get a chance to blurt out any more hurtful surprises._

He pulled up his list of contacts.

“Hello, Haley? It’s Dave.”

 


	75. Wet Hen

Haley was fuming as she readied her home for yet another bout of convalescence.

But this time was different. Hearing Aaron had been shot left a cold, leaden lump of fear in the pit of her stomach; like a ghost of the bullet that had felled her husband. She had been provided so little detail, her imagination was running rampant. _What happened? **How** was he shot? **Where** was he shot? Did they get whoever did it? Wasn’t anyone looking out for him? _ And always, like a never-ending loop, _Why Aaron? Why Aaron? Why my Aaron!!_

Uncertain what she would be dealing with, Haley brought blankets and pillows downstairs, in case her husband couldn’t climb up to the second floor. She turned the heat up, having observed that when he was injured or ill, Aaron tended to shiver. _And he probably won’t eat anything. This job is tearing him apart!_

She considered the vicious cycle of discomfort that lay in wait for Aaron. _He won’t eat. What precious little flesh he has to protect and warm him gets less and less. So he shivers and feels cold and more miserable. And then he huddles away by himself and refuses another meal and it just keeps going on and on and on. And one of these times his body won’t rally. He’ll just descend and keep on going down and…and…and…_ She bit her lip, struggling not to give in to the wail that wanted to work its way up from the center of her being.

 _And I’ll be childless and he’ll be gone and I’ll have lost him and he’s too beautiful, too special to lose! The best gift I can give him is immortality with a baby. But time’s running out!_ She gulped back fear and frustration and anger. _And just **where** did he get shot!?_

Haley wanted to call the hospital and demand all the details, but the awful taste left in her mouth by that beast of a nurse who’d spoken to her as though wives had no rights when it came to their husbands, made her hesitate. _He’ll be home soon anyway. I’ll find out everything then._ She checked the kitchen cupboard to make sure plenty of soup was on hand. When things were really bad, sometimes she could coax hot broth into him.

She went upstairs to the bathroom to check on first aid supplies and painkillers that might come in handy. He rarely used them, but sometimes, even if he refused, she could sneak an aspirin into Aaron by crushing it in orange juice. _Just the way you would for a child…a child!..._ Her eye fell on the cheery, little fertility calendar. _Well, at least this isn’t prime conception time. But how long is he going to need to recover? And just **where** did he get shot!?_

When the phone, the landline downstairs, rang, she was certain it would be Garcia or J.J. or even Aaron himself, letting her know they had landed safely in Quantico, and her husband would be home soon.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Dave! Oh, thank God! Are you bringing Aaron ho…”

“Haley, stop.”

Rossi’s voice was level and commanding. Haley fell silent, sensing something seriously unpleasant in the offing. “Haley, they’re keeping Aaron another night.” He heard her sharp gasp and hurried forward in hopes of forestalling panic or rage or whatever reaction might be brewing inside Hotch’s complicated wife.

“Don’t worry. They’re just keeping him as a precaution…”

“Against what? What’s wrong?” And Haley was off and running before Rossi could re-apply the brakes. “Dave, no one’s told me anything! I’m his _wife_ , for Christ’s sake! And when I _did_ call, trying to find out what happened, this…this…woman!...in his room!... was so rude!”

Rossi had no doubt the offensive female who’d ruffled Haley’s feathers was the redoubtable Clara…he’d forgotten her last name, but privately decided it should be ‘Barton’ in light of her nursing skills and the stock Hotch’s doctor placed in her opinions…

“…I’m here at home trying to…to… _divine_ what kind of care Aaron will need when he comes home, and I’m working in the dark!...and now you tell me they’re keeping him?!...Why? Why, Dave? Why?...and…”

Aware he was in a hospital hallway where quiet was mandatory, Rossi injected his tone with force, rather than volume. “They’re keeping him because of _you_ , Haley!”

“…and I…I…” The tirade faltered to a stop. The next word she spoke was as dead and leaden as the lump of anxiety, the ghost-bullet, that still nestled in the pit of her stomach. “…Me…”

“You.”

After a moment of either shocked or contemplative silence…Rossi couldn’t tell which... “I don’t see how that’s possible.” A hostile chill permeated the statement.

“Whatever you said to Aaron when you called him last night got one hell of a strong reaction, Haley. So much so, that more than one of the medical professionals on staff here judged it best that Aaron stay. _Not_ to keep him under observation for his injury; _not_ because he needs more time to heal physically, but to give him a break from whatever you said that threw him into a tailspin and then made him crash and burn this morning. He had a breakdown, Haley. Couldn’t stop crying. _That’s_ why they’re keeping him here.”

An even longer pause ensued. Rossi let it go on, hoping it meant shocking information was being given serious consideration, and maybe filtering through Haley’s layers of defense and finding a core of honesty and understanding where it could settle and hopefully give rise to compassion.

She repeated herself, but this time there was no hostility; she sounded genuinely lost. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Rossi took a deep breath, the kind that would defuse his own emotional desire to reach through the connection and shake Hotch’s wife into seeing that her belief in possibility wasn’t the issue. She should be exploring Hotch’s actions, not defending her own.

“Regardless, that’s the state of things at the moment.” Dave glanced around to be sure of his own privacy, even as he made the decision to invade some more of Hotch’s. “Haley, what did you say to Aaron? Maybe I can help, if you tell me.”

“N-nothing!” Miles away, her brow furrowed as she tried to recall her words. She might have, if the brief conversation hadn’t been overwritten in her mind by her outrage at the interfering woman who had intercepted her call mid-way, and the dreadful worry as she’d spent the morning preparing for Aaron’s aborted homecoming. “All I said was that I’d love him no matter what!” Rossi could hear incipient tears in Haley’s voice as she continued. “What could possibly be wrong with that! I love him, Dave! How can telling him be bad for him?!?”

Rossi suspected Hotch’s formative years had been…difficult. But he wasn’t going to discuss that with Haley. Any suspicions he had, he would hold in trust until such time as Hotch himself wanted to broach the subject. Dave waited until Haley’s sniffling abated. “When I talked to him, he said something about his past following him; about never being free of it. Does that ring any bells?”

Haley sounded subdued. “Oh… _that_ …”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was a little stunned.

His team had dispersed. His valiant efforts to pack his bag and dress for the flight home were wasted. He’d been offered food, drink and reading material by various white-clad staff. But he’d opted to sit on the side of his bed and wonder what had happened.

When his door opened and Rossi came in, Hotch stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

The older man stood before him, hands in pockets, looking down with an odd expression Hotch couldn’t quite read. It disturbed him. There was something of pity, something of caution, and a great deal of sadness about it.

“Dave? What’s going on? Why can’t I go home? I don’t have time to waste sitting around here.”

Rossi reached out, using one index finger to trace the curve of the chin on Hotch’s upturned face. It was an affectionate gesture, but it revealed nothing.

“Dave?”

Rossi’s sigh was weary. “I agree with your doctor, Aaron. It wouldn’t hurt you to slow down, take a break…” He cupped the raised chin in his palm. “…before _you_ break.”

Hotch’s eyes bored into Dave’s. “Does this have something to do with, well, earlier? In that courtyard?” His eyes widened, touched with the horror of possible exposure, _detailed_ exposure. “Did you tell that doctor about…that?”

“No, of course not.” Rossi moved his hand to stroke the gravity-defying cowlicks. “I didn’t have to. There were security cameras trained on us. He already knew.”

Hotch’s eyes closed in a brief surrender to private humiliation. “I’m not some kind of basket case, if that’s why they’re keeping me here.”

“That’s not what they think. They recognize you have a dangerous profession and a traumatic injury. My opinion is that that doc wants to give you a chance to rest before you resume what he sees as a life overburdened with stress. It’s not like they’re going to report this to the Bureau or make a big deal. He’s just offering you an opportunity to relax.” Rossi shrugged. “I’d take it and be grateful, if it were me. In fact…” He brightened. “…it’s a chance for the whole team to take a very brief break. And if you think Morgan doesn’t need one, too, after pulling the trigger on his own boss, you need to think again.”

Hotch nodded, one corner of his mouth twitching upward in wry agreement. “Okay.” He leaned, with some difficulty, toward the nightstand, hand reaching for the top drawer. “I’ll stay here, but I need to talk to Haley. She’ll be wait…”

Rossi’s hand descended on Hotch’s, covering it, stopping its progress. “No. I already spoke to her.” He couldn’t keep the deep note of sorrow out of his voice, but did a creditable job of clearing his throat as camouflage.

Hotch’s wide, unguarded eyes looked back up at his dearest friend. Rossi could almost see the train of thought passing through them. _He’s scared I know too much. To him it’s not sharing pain; it’s losing yet another facet of his life…his friendships…to the taint of a past that won’t lie down and die._

But then Hotch derailed that particular train.

“She doesn’t know how I got hurt, does she? She doesn’t know Morgan shot me?”

Rossi’s shoulders slumped. He placed a hand along the side of his leader’s cheek. _My God. He’s thinking of Morgan; even now putting his teammate before his own fear, his own welfare._

“We didn’t talk about Morgan at all. If she knew, if anyone here had mentioned it, she would have said something. Don’t worry about Derek.”

“What _did_ you talk about?” Hotch’s voice was fainter; dread taking a toll on his scant strength.

Haley hadn’t gone into detail and Rossi had been glad. He didn’t know the depth of Haley’s knowledge, but it wasn’t his place to trespass on delicate ground. It was enough that his suspicions were verified: Hotch’s childhood had been abusive.

Now, he looked down into eyes that reminded him of a hunted thing…and came to a decision.

“She said she loves you. Very much.”

It was true.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Taking advantage of the permission he’d been given to feed Hotch, Rossi procured Chinese takeout. The two men shared a meal in the hospital room.

With some of his worries regarding communication with Haley laid to rest, and a full stomach, and a mandatory dose of painkillers, Hotch drifted off to sleep fairly early. Rossi watched for a little while, enjoying the spectacle of ‘enforced’ rest.

When he left, visiting hours were long past. The halls were quiet. The lights dimmed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Clara Sandler left the wounded FBI agent for the end of her rounds.

She was gratified that Dr. Adamson had accepted her suggestion that this patient remain for another night. She checked Mr. Hotchner’s vitals, taking note of the fact that he was still restless.

Clara had no idea what federal agents dreamt about, but she doubted it was peaceful. Sighing, she checked the man’s phone to make sure it was turned off. At least there would be no more upset from _that_ direction. _Not on my watch, at any rate._

When it came time for her break, the nurse decided to take it in Mr. Hotchner’s room, just in case he emerged from troubled sleep and needed reassurance…or a motherly ear. Clara pulled a chair to the bedside and settled back with a magazine. Immersed in an article about wildflowers in Virginia, she was unaware when she began humming to herself.

Whether it was maternal instinct, or simply that the tune fit the time of night, it was another lullaby.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch tossed and turned as much as his injury would allow. He almost woke up, but then something soothing, like a warm breeze entered his dreams, sweeping away images of blood and fear and doubt. It resolved itself into a melody.

_Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry…_

_Got to sleep my little baby._

_When you wake you shall have_

_All the pretty, little horses…_

Hotch slept, cradled in dreams by large, embracing arms, and the scent of lavender.  


	76. Pheasant Under (Magnifying) Glass

Hotch didn’t want to open his eyes.

He wanted to stay just a little longer…or maybe forever…in the peaceful, safe, warmth that enveloped him. Snuggling deeper into the bedding, he rolled onto his side…and was jolted awake when his bullet wound protested with razor-edged pangs. Despite the pain, a moment of disorientation made him think he was surrounded by arms and lavender, but the impression faded, as dreams usually do. In a few hours, he would recall nothing of it.

 _I’m in a hospital. I was shot. They saw me cry. They wouldn’t let me go home…_ and all the problematic issues waiting for him came flooding back.

With a small regretful sigh, he decided to get dressed and see if he could look healthy and vigorous enough to earn his discharge forms. _And I’ve got to call Haley. But not until I know for sure I’ll be going home. No…I should call her anyway._

He winced his way to a sitting position and was making the uncomfortable maneuver of stretching to reach his phone in the nightstand when the door, already ajar, swung open a little more; just enough to admit a familiar-looking nose.

Rossi pushed the rest of the way in when he saw Hotch was awake. He had a bag of takeout clutched in one hand. Aromas of coffee, bacon and eggs preceded him.

“Well, look who’s already up and at ‘em.” The older man’s voice was full of good cheer.

Rossi had been finalizing case reports most of the night, ensuring they would be stowed out of sight…and hopefully out of mind…for the flight home. At some point too much caffeine, too little sleep, and the surrealism of the horrors he was reading, combined. Pushed to the edge, Rossi’s emotional survival instincts had kicked in. They distanced him from the gory craftwork the unsub had made of two small girls. Rossi imagined the killer gloating over the fact that someone would discover the interior décor of his cabin in due time, but it was as though a sheet of cardboard had descended, blunting the sharp edges of perception, saving Dave from feeling the full impact.

It was an ability Hotch lacked, for all his expertise at compartmentalizing.

Rossi healed the wounds in his soul by smoothing them over with gratitude for all the good things in his life. Hotch’s wounds closed imperfectly, allowing wisps of horror to leak out like an evil fog, tainting his life with a faint, malevolent stench.

But both men had come through the night, and now Rossi was tired, but in a philosophically optimistic mood. He pulled up a chair and began unpacking the breakfast he’d brought to share with Hotch.

“I need to call Haley.”

“Eat something first.” Rossi extended a sandwich, wrapper greasy with melted cheese and bacon fat.

“No. Thanks, but…” Hotch gave the offering an indifferent glance. “…I’m not very hungry.” He looked up, meeting Dave’s frown. “I have to call Haley.”

Rossi set the sandwich down on the nightstand with slow deliberation, hoping it would meet its destiny in Hotch’s stomach if he let its fragrance work on the man. “You want me to wait outside? Give you some privacy?”

“Just for a few minutes. Thanks, Dave.”

Taking one of the cups of coffee he’d brought, Rossi retreated to the hallway. He moved a few steps away from the door. Still frowning, he sipped without tasting. He’d always thought Hotch’s lack of appetite was a response to the sordid nature of the cases they worked on.

 _But he ate a full dinner with me last night. Chinese. And now, his appetite’s gone again._ Rossi stared at the wall opposite him, letting a terrible suspicion rise to the surface. _One other thing happens after each case. We go home._ His head turned to stare at the half-closed door of Hotch’s room.

_What if his disinterest in food isn’t an aftermath to the case. What if it’s because he’s headed home._

Swallowing past a sudden, uneasy lump in his throat, Rossi realized he’d just lost his appetite, too.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Aaron! Honey, how _are_ you? I’ve been so worried! Are you coming home today? What’s going on over there?”

“Hi, Haley. I’m okay.” Hotch’s voice was subdued, partly for privacy, but also because his energy was down; something he would have thought a fairly decent night’s sleep might have remedied.

“Are you sure? You sound so tired, sweetheart.” Haley’s anxiety seeped across the connection, pooling inside of Hotch.

“I’m okay.” He took a deep breath, wincing as lung expansion aggravated his injury. “I don’t know if they’ll let me out today or not, but I hope so. Up to the doc, I guess. I’ll call you back when I know for sure.”

There was a brief pause while Haley sorted through the questions that had been plaguing her all night; ever since her discussion with Dave.

“Aaron,…I didn’t mean to upset you, you know… _before_? …I…I just didn’t understand…” She hesitated, gathering her thoughts. “…no, that’s not right. I _don’t_ understand. I _still_ don’t. Why do you think you need to hide things from me? And not just your job, but your _life_!” She could hear Hotch’s breathing roughen with suppressed emotion.

“I can’t talk about it right now. Not like this.”

Another, more awkward pause ensued, while the Hotchners strained to know what to say to each other without incurring wrath or upset. All the unanswered questions Haley had meant to ask at the earliest opportunity fell by the wayside under the weight of the discomfort she could feel on Aaron’s end. She could only think of one thing to say.

“Aaron, I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” Hotch would have said more, but his throat was tight with the threat of tears. _And I’m tired of crying. I’ve done enough. In front of the whole damn world, too._ An echo shivered over him of the humiliation he’d felt yesterday when he’d realized God-knows-how-many staff members were privy to a breakdown he thought he’d taken great pains to hide.

He swallowed as much of the tension as he could, striving to make his words ring with the truth and clarity he wanted Haley to hear in them. “Love you, too. Always will.”

“Call me as soon as you know if they’ll let you go. Or if you want me to come to you.”

 Haley took the muffled, sniffy, little noise that was nonetheless a masculine baritone as an affirmative.

 

xxxxxxx

 

After a few minutes, Rossi moved closer to Hotch’s doorway.

Not to eavesdrop, but to ascertain if the call had ended. When he didn’t hear the murmuring rumble recognizable as Hotch-the-husband, he edged around the doorjamb, ready to pull back if he was wrong and Aaron still had the phone against his ear.

It was in his hand; just a bleak piece of equipment with no glow to indicate that it was still connected to Haley. But Hotch was sitting so still, eyes vacant. As devoid of light as the phone’s screen.

“Aaron?” Rossi placed his coffee cup on the nightstand, bending closer to try and interpret whichever emotion gripped the younger man. “Hey.” He touched two fingers to Hotch’s chest, giving a gentle push, breaking the man out of his reverie. “Everything okay at home?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

A leaden voice. Dull eyes. Rossi wasn’t buying it. Sighing, he pulled a chair around, bringing him knee to knee with Hotch.

“Okay. Spill it. Otherwise I’ll tell that doc that you need to stay another night.” _And maybe that’s not such a bad idea in and of itself._

The mild threat won Rossi a brief glance. “I’m fine. I need to get back. We all do.”

 _He ‘needs’ to go back. Didn’t say he ‘wants’ to…_ Dave leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to erase his own weariness. “Don’t make me play twenty questions with you. I’m too tired, Aaron.”

Hotch looked up, for the first time realizing Rossi’s eyes had dark circles; his whole demeanor was less energetic than usual. “You didn’t sleep last night?”

“I was busy. By choice.” He wasn’t going to talk about how he’d spent the time wrapping up the case. He would never bring this particular case up again in Hotch’s presence. “But I’m tired and when I’m tired, I get a little impatient. Don’t make me hurt you to get information, Aaron. It would be too easy.” Rossi motioned with his chin toward Hotch’s side and the thick bandage that was evident under his t-shirt.

“I’m not sure I can even put it into words, Dave.”

“Try.” The slight edge of sarcasm gave the ring of truth to Rossi’s claim of impatience.

Hotch nodded. He closed his eyes, as though doing so would protect him from his own words. Rossi just saw it as the first, most basic way of hiding the Unit Chief had ever learned. He was reverting back to his earliest means of defense.

“I feel like my whole life is on public display. I might as well be turned inside out and posted like a memorandum for everyone to read. Yesterday I told you I didn’t think I’d ever be able to get away from things I’ve spent my whole life trying to leave behind. This is almost worse.” He lowered his head and his voice. “At least, it feels that way right now.”

Rossi almost let one side of his mouth quirk upward in a wry grin. _He’s recognizing that how he feels at the moment might not be as bad if he lets some time pass. That’s progress. Not much. But some._

“Maybe it’s all a matter of perspective, Aaron. Maybe the things you consider so worthy of secrecy…aren’t.”

Hotch gave him a sharp look.

Rossi shrugged. “Just sayin’. Maybe what you don’t want others to know about you is a mountain in your world, but a grain of sand in everyone else’s.” His grin was sad. “Wouldn’t that be a relief?”

The two men stared at each other. Rossi didn’t tell Hotch that he could read what was going through the younger man’s mind. _He desperately wants to believe that. But the only way to find out if it’s true is to lay himself open in plain sight of everyone. And that’s one of his greatest fears._

When enough time had passed in silence, Rossi offered what he hoped would be a workable compromise.

“Maybe you could just test the waters, Aaron. Stick a toe in and see if you can handle it.”

Hotch shook his head, unsure. “How would I do that?”

“Pick one person. Open up to them. Read their reaction. You’re a profiler. Use your skills.”

The Unit Chief’s dark eyes were fixed on Rossi’s. “What if I’m not strong enough to do that?”

“You’ll never know until you try.”

Hotch’s indecision was plain to see. It lanced into Rossi’s heart. “Look, try it with someone from either end of the scale: someone who you think cares for you enough to overlook whatever deep, dark secrets you think you’re keeping; or someone who _you_ won’t care if they jump ship and never speak to you again.”

Hotch gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

Rossi stood, stretching some of his fatigue away. “Think about it. I’m gonna go see if I can find out if they’ll let you go home today.” As he left, he glanced back at Hotch from the doorway.

_He still isn’t eating. And I don’t think it’s the case that does that to him. Not entirely, anyway._


	77. Little Chick

“Think we’ll go home today?”

Prentiss had her feet resting, ankles crossed, on top of one of the wrought iron tables that comprised the _al fresco_ dining area of the bistro where she, Morgan, J.J. and Reid had gathered for omelettes and coffee.

Mouth full of an egg-and-mushroom mixture, Morgan nodded. “ ‘Nother case could come any time. Gotta get back.”

“Yeah. I think it’s more a question of whether Hotch’ll be coming with us.” Voice soft and contemplative, J.J. stirred cream into her cup, studying the patterns it made before dispersing into a uniform caramel color.

Prentiss stifled a yawn. “It’d be weird to fly back without him.”

“I dunno.” Of them all, Reid was the most subdued. “Maybe it’s better if he _doesn’t_ come back on the jet. Might not want to be around us.”

Looks were exchanged. Morgan took the lead. “Pretty Boy, if there’s anyone Hotch doesn’t want to be near, it’d be me.”

Reid continued to study his long fingers laced around a mug of chai. J.J. reached over and pushed a stray lock of hair behind the youngest agent’s ear; a motherly, neatening gesture.

“Spence, Hotch isn’t the type to hold a grudge. We just need to talk to him, tell him what we did was because we want to see him happy and a Daddy. He’ll understand.”

Reid finally looked up, large, limpid, amber gaze traveling from teammate to teammate. “That’ll make _us_ feel better.” His eyes dropped again. “But not Hotch.”

“It might take time, but we’ll get back to the way we were.” J.J.’s matter-of-fact delivery did nothing to alter Reid’s expression.

Morgan swallowed the mouthful he’d been chewing and sat straighter, wiping his hands on his thighs. “You trying to tell us something, Reid?” Spencer’s only response was to chew his lower lip. “C’mon, kid. What’s going on that we don’t know?”

Reid shook his head. “Something. I don’t know, but…something.” He concentrated on his cup again. “You don’t break down the way he did yesterday just because you’re embarrassed about your privacy being invaded. You just don’t.”

“All right. Enough.” Morgan resumed his meal. “We invaded his privacy…we had a case where little kids died…and I shot him in the back.”  He toyed with the remainder of his breakfast, appetite receding. “Hell…it’d make _me_ break down.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

While Rossi went to investigate his friend’s status concerning release, Hotch cast about for things he could do to improve his odds.

Bending at the waist hurt and he didn’t think he was allowed to get the bandages wet, so showering was out. Still, he did his best at freshening up. Shaving always made him feel better. He donned clean sweats and regarded his tennis shoes with a jaundiced eye. He could slip them on, but bending over to reach their laces wasn’t possible. He was bemoaning the fact that he’d have to wait for someone to help him tie his shoes like a child when the door, slightly ajar, opened a few inches more.

This time, it wasn’t Rossi’s familiar nose poking around the edge. It was a completely foreign, unknown nose that, considering their last case, made Hotch’s stomach ripple in distress. Even if they wouldn’t let him see reports or discuss particulars, horror lingered in Hotch’s mind.

So when a tiny creature dressed in her best visit-someone-sick outfit pushed into his space, index finger pressed against lips to indicate he should be quiet…Hotch didn’t know what to think. Or do. Or say. Or where to look.

“Shhhhhh…” The petite figure in a pink dress dotted with pale, yellow blossoms, frothing with lace at neck and hem, turned its back on the room’s occupant and devoted its full attention to making sure whatever scuffled past in the hallway didn’t stop; kept right on going.

Hotch didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until, deciding she was safe from detection, the child turned to confront him. Artless, gray eyes took unabashed inventory of him from head to foot.

“Hi.”

Hotch blinked, brain racing on multiple, startled levels. _She’s just a little girl. Why am I so…so…I’m **scared**! What’s wrong with me?! Something’s wrong! I never used to be afraid of children! Oh, God…Haley’ll kill me if I’m afraid of kids now! But…but…but maybe it’s just a reaction to this last case. Yeah…Yeah, that’s it. Has to be._

“I’m Brenda. Who’re you?”

Hotch swallowed, finding his emotional footing again. “I’m Aaron. You shouldn’t be in here, Brenda.”

“I’m hiding from my brother.”

“You still shouldn’t be in here.” Hotch tried to cover the slight shake in his voice. “You shouldn’t be alone around strangers. Like me.”

“Why?”

His eyes widened. Was it possible in this day and age that parents _didn’t_ warn their children about the dangers lurking, stalking around every corner?

“Because strangers can do bad things. They can hurt you.” _But so can people who **aren’t** strangers…so can the people who’re supposed to protect you from getting hurt…like your dad…_

Brenda stared, but just when Hotch thought she might be realizing the truth of what he was telling her, she tossed her hair and shrugged one small shoulder. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“You don’t know that. I could be a bad person you shouldn’t be alone with.”

“N-o-o-o-o…” The child tilted her head and, to Hotch’s horror, came closer. “You’re not bad. You’re okay.” She stood right in front of him, craning her neck to see up his long length. “My Nana’s sick. Are you sick, too?”

Hotch kept having to remind himself to breathe. _Was this how Elijah Wesson caught his victims? Just stood there and they came right up to him?_ “No, I’m not sick.” He tried to sound stern, even scary, but the concerned curiosity in little Brenda’s gaze got to him, unlocking some chromosome-deep instinct that cried ‘Protect! Don’t frighten! Protect the children!’ Hotch’s shoulders sagged. “I’m not sick. I’m hurt.”

His small visitor frowned up at him. “Did a st’anger hurt you?” Brenda sometimes had trouble with her ‘r’s. But only sometimes; she was getting over it. Lack of enunciation didn’t defuse the sharp, quizzical sound of her question. If a stranger had hurt him, that would explain all the warnings this man gave.

“No, a…a friend did.” Hotch’s voice went low, confidential. “It was an accident.”

“I’m sor-wy.” Brenda didn’t have all the words yet, but she could tell this impossibly tall man was safe to be with. And sad. And worried. She reached up and patted his hand. “Sor-wy.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Resigned to his inability to impress on the girl that she should be more cautious of giving her trust, Hotch sighed. “Where are your parents? Aren’t they worried about you?”

“No. They said we could play. Long as we don’t yell.”

Hotch’s eyes closed. _God! They let her wander all alone and they tell her not to make noise!?! What more could an unsub ask for?_

Brenda saw the expression way up high on the man’s face. He looked worn out. “You need a nap. I should go.”

Hotch spoke as she headed for the door. “Brenda, will you do me a favor?”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned against the jamb, rubbing her nose with the heel of her hand.

“Will you tell your parents you were alone in a room with a strange man? Do that for me?”

The girl beamed out a huge smile, relieved that this was an easy favor. “Sure.” Then her smile dimmed. “You’re nice. No one should hurt you. Bye, Aa’won.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Dr. Adamson seemed to be scanning the chart in his hand, but really he was surreptitiously studying the patient.

He kept a small smile under control. Mr. Hotchner reminded him of his own son trying to pull the wool over his father’s eyes. _See? I’m all better because I got out of bed. Can I go to the game with the other guys?_

The doctor was genuinely concerned. He could discharge the man, but he’d reviewed the security tape showing the episode in the courtyard. The only time he’d seen men sob with such uncontrolled, ragged abandon was in the face of traumatic loss; when someone they loved had been torn from them. He didn’t think that applied in this case.

The other reason for it was more disturbing. A reaction to such prolonged, personal pressure that the spirit couldn’t withstand it anymore. The man had fractured, ruptured inside. Although Adamson had no physical reason to keep Mr. Hotchner, he felt duty-bound to impress upon him the gravity of living under such tremendous, unrelieved stress.

Tapping a pen against his teeth, the doctor looked up, catching his patient unawares, causing Hotch to straighten and lift his chin like an academy cadet hoping to pass muster.

Adamson stepped closer. Setting the paperwork down, he used both hands to tip Hotch’s head up even more. He ran practiced fingers along the jaw and down the neck, checking for any swollen lymph glands. It wasn’t really necessary; he knew the wound wasn’t infected and Hotchner wasn’t running a temperature, but he wanted to see the man’s reaction to being handled. There was a resistance, almost a jumpiness about him. _He’s on edge. Might be the work he does has left too much of a mark on him._

“How’re you feeling today, Mr. Hotchner? Better than yesterday at least?”

“I’m fine. Ready to go home.”

“Mmmhmmm.” It was a modified version of the judgmental hum to which all physician’s resorted from time to time. Hotch hated it. “Lift your shirt, please.” Under the guise of inspecting the bullet wound, Adamson pried a little deeper into his patient’s life.

“So you want to leave us.”

“Y-Yeah.” Hotch’s breath caught for a moment as fingers probed the bruised area surrounding his injury.

“What’s waiting for you at home?”

“Uh…Work. My home. My wife. Everything.” It seemed an odd question to Hotch.

“Mmmhmmm.” The doctor kept his voice level, noncommittal; just making conversation. “So, when you _are_ home, what do you do for fun? In your spare time?”

Hotch hesitated. “I don’t have a lot of free time. Job takes up most of it.”

Adamson moved his hands over the musculature of his patient’s torso in an unnecessary examination, buying time. “I see. Do you have children, Mr. Hotchner?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Trying?”

“Yeah.”

“Not going so well?”

Hotch frowned. For a man who was super-sensitized to having his private life invaded and dissected, he didn’t like where this discussion was going.

He was almost glad when the door to the room burst open, revealing a distraught young couple. The man’s eyes locked on Hotch. The woman was a few steps behind, looking worried and holding a little girl’s hand.

“That’s him, Daddy!” Brenda’s voice was triumphant, filled with joy. “That’s Aa’won. I was all alone with him. He said to tell you.”

Rossi could be glimpsed in the hallway, bringing up the rear of the little procession. The look of consternation on his face showed he had no idea what was happening. Hotch had an inkling, but it wasn’t what he’d expected. He might have ducked, if the doctor’s hands hadn’t been spread across his ribs, holding him in place.

But at least Adamson’s grip kept Hotch upright when Brenda’s father landed a powerful right hook on the Unit Chief's jaw. 


	78. Cock Fight

Robert Scanlon was an accountant by trade.

He spent his days crunching numbers and identifying write-offs and loopholes for large corporations. He was satisfied with his job and generally happy with his life, because his primary focus was his family. He loved his wife, Celia, and their two children, Brenda and Bobby, to distraction. His heart was filled with gratitude for his peaceful, bountiful time on this planet.

Robert Scanlon was not a large man; nor a muscular one.

Robert Scanlon was not a physically impressive man.

But he _was_ a father. And when the love in his normally placid heart was displaced by rage, it gave him uncommon strength, determination and purpose. When he found the man who’d sent him a taunting message via his tiny daughter, Robert Scanlon felt he had the right to give free rein to the unstoppable fury that message had ignited.

“What did you _DO_?!?” Saliva flew from his lips as he spat the words at the tall, dark man his Brenda had identified as the message sender. “What did you do to my daughter?! I’ll _kill_ you!!”

Chaos came to visit in Hotch’s room.

All hospital staff within hearing converged on the scene. Nurses, orderlies, two other doctors, and a member of the janitorial crew pelted down the hall at the sound of a man’s voice shaking, roaring with paternal rage.

Chaos pulled up a chair and sat down to watch the show.

Dr. Adamson didn’t think. He wrapped his arms around his patient, sweeping the stunned man into a hug as he twisted in a protective maneuver, shielding Hotch and presenting his own back to the assailant.

Little Brenda tried to protect her new friend by wailing her confusion as to why her Daddy was doing this.

Brenda’s mother, Celia, clamped onto her children’s hands and struggled to pull them ever closer to the safe haven of her body, even as she screamed at her husband to stop.

Rossi, almost as stunned as Hotch, moved with quick professionalism to pinion the angry father’s arms behind his back.

And Robert Scanlon fought against everyone and everything trying to keep him from his target; the tall, dark, dangerous-looking man who had taught his daughter words that brought up visions of pedophiles lurking in conveniently private rooms. The frothing father had wanted to ask his little girl if the man who’d warned her about being dangerous…who had seemed a little edgy, a little odd…had done certain, specific things. But he’d realized that even putting those things into words would bring his angel too close to an ugliness her father wanted kept at bay. So all he’d asked was…

… “Brenda, did he… _touch_ …you?” To which the little girl had raised her beatifically innocent face and replied…

… “No, Daddy. I touched _him_.” Still fresh in Brenda’s mind was the fulfilling moment she’d placed her hand on the sad man’s. Because he _needed_ a gentle touch after his friend had hurt him, even if it _had_ been by accident. She was proud of having been able to make a little of the tall man’s sorrow lighten. She’d felt like the adult, dispensing grown-up comfort. But the only way she could express that was to affirm…

… “I touched _him_. It made him feel better.”

White with shock and anger that bordered on being an elemental force, Robert had directed his daughter to point the way to this man’s room. When he’d been certain he had the right one, he’d let his rage-beast off its leash and given it permission to attack.

Chaos enjoyed her stint in Hotch’s room.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It took the combined efforts of Robert’s family, the doctor, Rossi, and two beefy male nurses to restore order.

But it wasn’t until Brenda placed tiny hands on each side of her father’s face, bringing her button-nose close to his, and he saw the tragedy in her eyes, that he exercised a little restraint on himself.

“Daddy! Daddy! Don’t hurt Aa’won! He’s nice. Don’t hurt him. Please, Daddy! Please!”

Rossi had pushed the man to his knees, still holding his arms in a firm lock, pulled up and to the back. Having glanced at Hotch and seen that he was being tended, the older agent added his voice to the little girl’s. “Yeah. Don’t hurt Aaron. Think you can manage that, _Daddy_?” The question held a shade of outraged sarcasm. Rossi was tired; he wasn’t in the mood for any more drama.

Robert was still touchy, anger too close to the surface. Hearing Rossi’s tone and the word ‘Daddy’ on the agent’s lips stoked his internal fire, making him try to pull free. That earned him the set of cuffs that appeared from Rossi’s back pocket. In addition to providing reliable restraint, they also broke through the last vestiges of Mr. Scanlon’s frenzy.

His brows rose to near-comic heights. “What the…?” He twisted as well as he could to confront Rossi. “Who _are_ you?!?”

“SSA David Rossi…FBI. And you just attacked Special Supervisory Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit…” Rossi let what he thought of as his ‘home-boy-Mafia’ grin lift one side of his lips in a sneer. “…my _boss_.”

Scanlon’s face, formerly red with congested rage, paled.

“Stop it, Dave.”

Rossi’s eyes shifted to Hotch.

The Unit Chief was half-supported by the doctor, who was bent, doing a quick check of his patient’s stitches. Hotch was running his own diagnostic on his jaw, moving it in small increments to test its mobility, the fingers of one hand probing the rapidly purpling, swelling flesh along one side. In response to Rossi’s questioning look, Hotch shifted his eyes toward the little girl. Dave read the unspoken plea: _Not in front of the children. Don’t scare them any more than they are._

“Just keep the cuffs on him ‘til he calms down.”

“Fine.” Rossi abandoned any thoughts he’d been entertaining that sprang from his sleepless night and a desire to work off some of his frustrations. Besides, by the look of him, Hotch’s attacker was beginning to realize he might have misinterpreted some key elements of the situation. The man seemed to be shrinking in on himself as though he’d taken a sizeable sip from the ‘Drink Me’ bottle in ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ _Or was that ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass?’_ Rossi shook himself. _Whatever’s going on here is surreal enough without dragging in **that** weird child’s tale. And speaking of children telling tales…_ He turned to the mother who had managed to pull her son and daughter to her, clutching them with a confused sort of ferocity.

“Ma’am, your husband attacked a federal officer. Care to tell me why?”

Despite her alarm and obvious nerves, the woman made an attempt to match Rossi’s level tone. The small quaver in her voice smoothed out after a few words. “H-he thought he did s-something to our little girl.”

“W-h-y?” Rossi drew the query out in a judgmental, are-you-kidding-me drawl. He wasn’t going to make it easy for these people. Hotch was the last person in the world he could imagine harming a child. And to have that kind of suspicion surface now, when the man was doubting himself and the entire world when it came to the advisability of _having_ children… Well, Rossi was giving it short shrift.

“B-Brenda, our daughter, she said that…” The woman had to take a breath. Even if nothing had really happened…something she was suspecting more and more…the concept of what _might_ have happened shook her to her core. “…She said that she _touched_ him.”

“I did, I did!” The little girl whimpered from her mother’s side, distressed and unable to grasp all the angry emotions whirling through the adults. She raised her tear-stained face in support of her story. “He got hurt an’…an’… he was sad, so I touched him.” A fresh sob made her bury her nose in her mother’s skirt.

“She touched my _hand_.” Hotch chimed in, still cradling his sore jaw.

Rossi shook his head. “So you jumped to a conclusion without even bothering to find out the identity of the man you assumed, without any real proof, had harmed your kid. Smart. Real smart.”

The father had recovered enough for outrage at his own treatment to begin to build within him. “Hey, just because the guy’s a fed doesn’t mean anything. You think there’s no crossover between cops and perverts? Not too smart yourself.”

“Dave!” Hotch had seen the ripple of anger in Rossi’s compressed lips. He wanted to head it off before it manifested either in unnecessary roughness with the cuffs, or sharp language levied against a father, which would be best done in private without the man’s children present.

“Dave, take off the cuffs, and then please take Brenda and her brother and mother out. I’d like a word with Brenda’s father.”

“Scanlon. My name’s Scanlon.” Robert struggled to his feet, feeling it reclaimed some of his dignity to do so while his wrists were still bound.

“I’m Aaron Hotchner.”

“Aa’won. Don’ hurt Aa’won, Daddy. Please.”

“No one’s hurting anyone. Is that clear?” Dr. Adamson’s irritation was evident. He’d finished assuring himself that his patient’s sutures hadn’t ripped open and was letting everyone know how appalled he was at this behavior, especially inside hospital walls where injuries were healed, _not_ inflicted.

The doctor took hold of Hotch’s chin, tipping his head to one side in order to better inspect the damage to his jaw. “Would you like me to get the police involved, Mr. Hotchner?”

Scanlon went a shade paler. Up until now, there had been a singular _lack_ of violence in his life. As much as he felt justified in protecting his daughter, the consequences to his reputation if he acquired a criminal record could be dire both socially and professionally.

“No. I’m fine.” Hotch slumped. The brief rush of adrenaline had depleted him even more than usual. He had to admit he was still weak from the ordeal in the woods surrounding Elijah Wesson’s cabin. The thought of the unsub and his victims hardened Hotch’s determination, in spite of his physical and emotional fragility. “I’d like to talk to Mr., uh, _Scanlon_ for a minute.”

Rossi removed the cuffs. He and the doctor ushered the young mother and her children out to the hallway. At the door, Rossi gave Hotch a narrow glance. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Thanks, Dave.”

Rossi shrugged one shoulder and exited, pulling the door all the way closed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Scanlon rubbed his wrists, giving the man before him a more detailed inspection than had been possible when he’d rocketed through the doorway, fists flying.

He didn’t look as darkly dangerous as the young father had thought. He looked tired and…sad. _That’s what Brenda said. But…_ “Why were you alone with my daughter? And why did you make her tell us that she’d been ‘with a stranger?’”

Hotch could tell protective anger was still bubbling just beneath the surface of this man. He was glad. At least he wasn’t the type who believed ‘that kind of thing never happens to people like us.’

“She came into my room uninvited. She said her parents told her it was okay to go play.” Hotch bit down on his own outrage. “And she was also told to keep quiet.”

“She shouldn’t have walked in on you…”

“But she _did_ ,” Hotch interrupted.

Scanlon blinked. “That was impolite, but…”

“It was _stupid_.” Hotch’s eyes narrowed.

“Look, buddy, she didn’t do anything wrong..”

“She did _everything_ wrong!” Hotch’s voice strained with the emotional fallout of the last few days. Sensing things were not what they appeared, Robert Scanlon stopped talking, choosing instead to search the anguished expression on this man’s face.

Hotch took a deep, shuddering breath. “You sent her off alone where she might encounter anyone. You told her not to make any noise.” He felt his throat begin to tighten. “If I _had_ harmed her, her impulse to scream, to call for help, would have been constrained by her parents’ command to keep quiet.”

Scanlon was silent, riveted by the intensity, the barely controlled fervor of the federal agent’s speech.

“I just came off a case where little girls just like your Brenda were murdered, Mr. Scanlon. I got hurt, so I didn’t see the crime scene where they found the remains. But that agent out there…” Hotch jerked his chin toward the hallway. “…Agent Rossi, did. It was so bad, he won’t discuss it with me. I want you to ask him to tell you what he saw. Maybe it’ll sink in that there are bad people in this world and your children aren’t immune to them.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Finally, Scanlon broke away.

“Look, I understand your concern, Agent. But I think you’re overreacting. Because of what you do. Because of everything you’ve seen. I don’t want my kids to grow up afraid. I…”

“Your kids won’t grow up at all if you don’t make them understand what’s out there.” Hotch’s heart had gone into triple-time at mention of the Elijah Wesson case. He bit his lip, trying to calm it’s frantic pace.

Scanlon began to back toward the door. There was something wrong here. Something had hit this man on a deeply personal level. Scanlon didn’t know how to deal with him. “I think maybe we both overreacted. And I’m sorry for my part. Sorry I hit you. I hope you accept my apology.”

“I hope you understand I’m just trying to prevent you from losing a child.” Hotch sagged onto the bedside, exhausted, drained. “Just do me a favor and talk to the agent in the hall. Tell him I said you need full disclosure. Just do it.”

Scanlon nodded and let himself out; happy to get away from someone who was clearly troubled and overly worried. _Guy’s burned out. That’s all…_

However, he did relay Hotch’s request to Rossi.

Rossi honored it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Robert Scanlon was a basically happy man whom evil had passed by.

Robert Scanlon listened to the deadpan agent in the hallway deliver a bare-bones description in an emotionless monotone.

Robert Scanlon had nightmares for three weeks.


	79. Bruised Bantam

_Don’t cry…don’t cry…get a grip…God, just no more crying, **please!** …_

Hotch huddled on the edge of the bed and struggled to get himself under control before anyone came to check on him. He didn’t know why he felt so fragile. Ordinarily he could present a calm, stoic face to the world no matter what was flung his way. The only people with whom he let down his guard were Haley and Rossi. And if he was honest, he let Rossi in a lot further than Haley.

He wasn’t sure if that was by choice or circumstance.

Lately, the things that made him lose control and plummet over unexpected, emotional cliffs happened in the field or at the office, where Dave was the one to drag him back onto level ground. Hotch knew he made an effort _not_ to break down in front of Haley, but if she’d been around yesterday when he was in that secluded courtyard, he wouldn’t have been able to prevent her seeing him in all his glorious, wet, tearful weakness. The emotions just forced their way up and out, and he had nothing to say about it.

Hotch shuddered at the idea of his wife bearing witness to such an episode. She was a strong, determined woman. He admired that. It bothered him that he wasn’t able to live up to being the type of man he thought she deserved. But then, neither could he imagine being with anyone else.

_C’mon, Hotchner…what’s wrong with you?!...don’t cry!...Don’t!..._

Hotch was alone in his room. He’d sent Scanlon, Brenda’s father, out to see Rossi. There was no one to upset him. He should be fine. But ever since that little girl had slipped through the doorway in a cloud of ignorant innocence, he hadn’t felt right. It was like an emotional swelling; something pushing its way up from deep inside. Hotch knew once it reached the surface, it would burst into another uncontrollable storm. His stomach hurt with the tension of it all. Or rather, the tension of having to hide it.

_Oh, God…and the whole team saw it, too…_

He wanted to curl up in a ball, but his bullet wound objected every time the muscles around his waist contracted. He tried to lean over just enough to bury his face in his hands, but his bruised jaw made that, too, an exercise in pain.

Finally, feeling a desperate need to hide, and not caring that Rossi would be the first to accuse him of doing so, Hotch lay down on the bed. Resting on his back, he crossed both forearms over his forehead and eyes.

He waited for his internal storm to either abate or break. And hated the rebellious tear that defied him, tracing a path down his temple, bound for the pillow.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“I’m gonna go see what the ETA is on Boss-man.” Pushing the plate bearing the remnants of his meal away, Morgan stood.

J.J. pulled her phone out. “I can call Rossi. You don’t need to go over there for nothing.”

“Uh…no.” Derek looked a little abashed. “I’m gonna go over anyway.” He ducked his head. “Don’t want Hotch lifting anything. His go-bag’s pretty heavy.”

“Yeah!” Prentiss looked up from her coffee. “What’s up with that? I lifted it out of the SUV once and it weighed a ton. What does he have in there? Like…eighty thousand ties, or something?”

“Files.” Reid spoke with authority. “Whenever the rest of us are asleep, Hotch pulls out a stack of files and goes to work on them.”

“Man.” Prentiss shook her head. “Someone needs to teach that guy to ease up once in a while.”

“Well, he’s gonna have to ease up for a couple weeks. No choice after getting sho…” Reid realized the insensitivity of the statement even before he finished it. “Uh…Sorry…Sorry, Morgan.”

“ ‘S okay.”

But everyone knew it wasn’t. And they also knew Derek’s determination to see Hotch rather than phone for an update on his condition, had nothing to do with the weight of his go-bag.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan sensed some tension in the air when he stepped out of the elevator onto Hotch’s floor.

A quick, professional appraisal of the immediate surroundings didn’t reveal much. He saw Rossi escorting a man down the hall. The way he was glancing at each doorway, finally settling on one that had no paperwork in the clip attached to it, made Morgan think the duo were looking for a vacancy; somewhere to talk in private. It puzzled him, but Derek was more interested in checking on Hotch than finding out what Rossi was up to.

Hesitating outside the Unit Chief’s room, Morgan listened. Silence. Either Hotch had been discharged, or he was very quietly on his own. Not wanting to disturb his boss if he was napping, Morgan pushed the door open a few inches; enough to allow a view of the bed.

Hotch’s long body was stretched out on top of the bedding. His arms were crossed over his eyes as though to block out light, but Morgan had the sinking feeling that wasn’t the purpose of the position. What hadn’t been audible from the hallway was the labored breathing and occasional hitch that made Derek’s own stomach clench in sympathy. He’d heard a fiercer, more undeniable version yesterday in the courtyard.

“Hotch?” It was said too softly to register on the bed’s occupant. Hotch could only hear his own gasping breaths, muted sounds to accompany  the internal battle he was waging.

Morgan stepped closer, frowning. Something wasn’t right.

Then he saw it.

If Hotch hadn’t shaved, it might have been mistaken in the subdued lighting for heavy beard stubble. But against the freshly pale skin, the bruises on Hotch’s jaw were _un_ mistakable. Livid. Swollen. Painful-looking.

Morgan felt a slow burn begin deep in his gut. He approached the bed. Grasping Hotch’s wrists, with gentle, irresistible strength, he pulled them up and away. Hotch resisted, but was no match for Morgan’s brawny hands. Plus, Derek had the advantage of leverage as he loomed over his bed-ridden friend.

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Hotch, trying to blink away the evidence of full eyes that he couldn’t explain. Morgan, feeling the angry, smolder inside him threatening to burst into full-fledged flames.

He just needed to know where to direct the burn.

“H-o-t-c-h…who did this to you? Tell me, man.”

“Let go, Morgan.” Didn’t matter if they were brimming, Hotch’s eyes held authority. Morgan obeyed, but only to a degree. He released the man’s wrists, taking hold of his shoulders instead.

“Tell me who hurt you.” Almost by instinct Morgan’s thumbs massaged into the pectoral muscles, trying to calm the rapid breathing, hoping it would make it easier for Hotch to let the answer slip out.

“Not important. Just a misunderstanding.”

“It always is. So…tell me what happened.”

Hotch took a deep, ragged breath, unaware that Morgan’s thumbs digging into his tense muscles _were_ having an effect; staving off the leading edge of the emotions still churning inside him.

“Just a misunderstanding,” he repeated. “A little girl’s father thought he was protecting her. That’s all.”

“Protecting her.” Morgan's voice was level, expressionless.

Hotch nodded, taking another labored breath, wincing when it aggravated his wound.

“Protecting her from you.”

“Yeah.”

“From… _you_ …”

Hotch looked up into the steady regard of his second-in-command. “He thought I might have molested her.” He closed his eyes, weary of the entire incident. “Like I said: just a misunderstanding.”

Morgan’s nostrils flared. He had to remind himself to keep his touch gentle so Hotch wouldn’t clue in to his teammate’s building rage.

 _All he’s been through…all the pain and grief that he feels more than anyone except the families when kids are involved…He does the job better and faster than anyone else, and then when giving his experience and talent isn’t enough, he gives pieces of himself…His heart…His soul…And some asshole accused him of being a predator?! And then **hit** him??!!...Where was Rossi during all this?!_...Morgan flashed on the man he’d seen walking with Rossi when he’d arrived.

He made a conscious effort to stop clutching Hotch’s shoulders. Giving them a soft, consoling pat instead, Morgan straightened from bending over his leader. “I’ll be right back, man. Just take it easy, okay?”

Hotch gave a small snort, filled with disgust for his own weakness, both physical and emotional. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” Morgan backed away, slipped out the door, and headed for the room he’d seen Rossi enter with a stranger.

A stranger whose insult and injury to Hotch needed addressing.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley felt as though she were a rat in a maze, chasing an Aaron-shaped piece of cheese.

She wanted him desperately, but it seemed everything she did was a wrong turn, taking her farther from him. Or hurting him. Or pushing him ever closer to his teammates.

 _If he didn’t have that job…those people around him…things would be so much better._ She let her mind roam over how Aaron had been when they’d first started out; before he’d been partnered with that motley group of agents. _He smiled more. He was happier. I didn’t have to keep after him to eat or rest or take care of himself. And if he needed someone to talk to, **I** was the one he’d turn to._

She chewed on the nail of her index finger, a nervous habit, a remnant of adolescence that she’d thought was gone. But David Rossi’s accusation that she’d upset her husband to the extent he needed to be kept away from her had brought it raging back.

_How could it possibly be wrong to want to **help** Aaron? So his father was mean to him! So it got a little loud and people gossiped about his family! Big deal!_

Preoccupied, Haley began chewing on her lip instead.

 _It’s gotten out of control. If Aaron would just share all these things, these molehills, he keeps locked away inside, they wouldn’t grow into mountains!_ Her eyes narrowed. _But I’ll have to push him to do it…just a little. Otherwise, he’ll end up talking to Dave instead of me. Because Dave’s always there. Because Aaron’s never **here**._

She stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Aaron had told her he’d call as soon as he knew when he’d be home.

Haley felt only a little traitorous for being glad that he had been hurt badly enough to require he stay home for a week or two. It would give her some team-free, Dave-free time to get her husband back on track.

A vision of the bright, little, bathroom fertility calendar flitted across her inner eye.

_And maybe, if we have enough uninterrupted time, I can kill two birds with one stone…_


	80. Settled Feathers

Morgan had to admit that of all the injustices attendant on newly-bruised Hotch, the worst was the accusation. In this case, words _were_ more powerful than blows.

He had no idea why anyone would label the Unit Chief a child molester. The very thought made his blood boil. At the same time he was keenly aware that there must be more to the story than he’d bothered to find out.

_But someone **hit** Hotch; **hit** him while he was a patient in a hospital! **Hit** him while he was injured! Injured because he had the welfare of two children at the forefront of his mind instead of his own!_

A dark, little voice interjected… _Injured because of **you**! How can you go after someone who raised a fist to Hotch, when **you** raised a gun?..._

Considering his own culpability in all the pain and hurt that were part and parcel of Hotch-World, only served to fuel Morgan’s anger. The ugly, little voice taunted him… _Are you sure it’s not **yourself** you want to punish?_

It was a long hallway. There was too much time for second-guessing and off-the-cuff introspection. Morgan didn’t want to listen to anything that would dissuade him. He didn’t waste time when he reached the door of the room into which he’d seen Rossi go with the man he suspected had been the one to punch out his boss. Without preamble, no polite tap, no hesitation, he strong-armed the door open.

And stopped two steps in, where momentum took him.

Rossi was standing beside a man, one hand on his back, the other holding a wastebasket in front of him. The odor and the sound of retching left no doubt as to the purpose of the basket.

The older agent looked up at Morgan’s abrupt entrance. Deadpan, Rossi shrugged. “Couldn’t make it to the bathroom.”

Considering they were mere feet away from the facilities, it was also obvious that the impulse to vomit had been sudden and violent. When the man looked up, greenly swaying, Morgan’s shoulders slumped down from their previously aggressive bunched posture.

The guy looked worse than Hotch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Dr. Adamson made sure the upset that had spilled out into the hallway from Mr. Hotchner’s room was cleared away. Those who needed explanations or comforting words, got them. Those who gathered out of curiosity were dispersed.

Of particular concern to him were the children, Brenda and Bobby. The boy seemed to take it all in stride, eyes wide with surprise, but not _too_ much distress. The little girl was another matter. Copious tears attended her as she clung to her mother. Adamson herded them to a quiet corner and knelt before the weeping child.

“Sweetheart. Sweetheart, look at me.”

Eyes as gray as rain and just as liquid connected with the doctor’s.

“I know that was hard to see, but I want you to understand why it all happened.” He smoothed tear-soaked hairs away from Brenda’s damp cheeks. “Because the reasons behind it all are really pretty wonderful.”

He offered a tentative smile, hoping to see it reflected on the child’s face. He was disappointed. The trauma of seeing Daddy attack her friend Aa’won, and then the rough treatment Daddy received in turn wouldn’t be easy to dismiss.

Adamson nodded to himself, acknowledging the validity of the girl’s feelings. On one knee, face to face with her, he did his best to explain the outrageous limits to which adults could go for love of their children.

“Mr. Hotchner…uh… _Aaron_ …is a man who fights bad guys for a living. He’s tough and he’s strong and…” He reared back a little, raising his eyebrows. “…you saw how tall  he is, right?”

Still clutching her mother’s skirt, Brenda gave a slow nod.

“Well, when your father thought maybe your friend Aaron had hurt you…he didn’t stop for even a second. He was going to make sure you were safe and no one ever, ever would have even the smallest chance to do anything bad around or near or to you. It didn’t matter that it was a misunderstanding. It didn’t matter that Mr. Aaron was so much bigger. All your Daddy felt was love for you. It was so strong, it took a whole bunch of us to stop him.” Adamson took a deep breath, expelling it in a slow _whoosh_.

“Now everything’s all fixed and everyone knows it was just a mistake, like that game called ‘Gossip?’ You ever play that?” Brenda nodded, her grip on her mother loosening a fraction.

“Just like in ‘Gossip,’ whatever Mr. Aaron said to you, got all twisted ‘round.” The doctor frowned. “By the way, do you remember exactly what Mr. Aaron _did_ say? Or, as exactly as you can?”

Brenda nodded again, hiccupping back the last remnant of her tears. “Aa’won said it was bad to be with st’angers alone and to tell Daddy and Mommy that I was.”

Adamson blinked. _That **does** sound like a taunt if you hear it from a little kid. What was Hotchner thinking?_

Aloud, he continued. “It’s true you should be careful of strangers. Your friend was right.” He glanced up at Mrs. Scanlon. Her eyes were darting; she was torn between wanting to find out where the FBI agent had taken her husband, and knowing her children needed explanations so this incident would have a proper place in their recollections; a cautionary, but not terrifying one.

The doctor gave Brenda his warmest smile. “But most of all this showed how much your Daddy loves you…both of you… _all_ of you. Do you understand that? And what a lucky girl you are to have a Daddy like that?”

The child gave an uncertain nod. This lesson would have to be explained again in the quiet security of her own home, by her own parents. But Dr. Adamson hoped he’d at least given a little comfort and maybe pointed Mrs. Scanlon in an acceptable direction for further discussion.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Feeling control had been restored as much as possible, the doctor returned to Hotch’s room.

Opening the door, he saw the patient lying on his back, eyes closed, breathing in long, slow cadences. It looked like an exercise in tension control. Adamson approved. He moved to the bedside, speaking in a low tone calculated _not_ to startle.

“So, Mr. Hotchner. Where were we?”

Hotch’s eyes snapped open, head jerking up a few inches off the pillow; the deep, even breaths truncated in a sharp gasp.

The doctor frowned. _So much for not startling him. This man is w-a-y too jumpy. But then, he’s been through a lot; more than enough to put him on edge._

Aloud, he tried to maintain a calm, soothing voice. “How are you feeling after that little…altercation? Anything else I should look at?”

Hotch began to struggle to a sitting position. Adamson slipped an arm behind his patient’s back, supporting him up, lessening the strain on his tender core muscles.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.” Spine stiffly straight, the Unit Chief tried to look competent and alert. But it only came off as nervous.

Crossing his arms, Adamson studied the man for a few moments. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Hotch looked up, wide eyes concerned. “I’ll be able to go home today, right?”

“Hmmmmm…”

The patient’s shoulders slumped. “I really hate it when you guys do that. That humming thing.”

“I’m just thinking.” The doctor sighed, tilting his head to one side as he considered the forlorn figure before him. “I can let you go, Mr. Hotchner, but I can also let you stay a little longer, if you want. Might give you a chance to rest. Might do you some good.”

Hotch shook his head. “Thanks, Doc, but I need to get home.”

Adamson pursed his lips for a moment. _‘Need,’ not ‘want.’_ “Well, alright then. I’ll see to your discharge papers and have them sent in.” He stepped forward, extending a hand. “It’s been good to meet you, Mr. Hotchner. Take care of yourself.”

Hotch grasped the hand, giving it a firm I’m-really-okay shake. “I will. Thanks for everything.”

At the door, the doctor glanced back at his patient…and decided to have a talk with the man’s friend; the older agent who’d hustled the unfortunate Scanlon down the hall.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi left Brenda’s father in Morgan’s capable hands.

“This the guy who slammed Hotch?” The two men engaged in a muttered exchange while Scanlon rinsed his mouth out in the bathroom.

“Yeah, it was just a weird misunderstanding. And I think he’s learned his lesson.”

“What’d you do to him, Rossi?”

Privately, Dave pushed down his own little swell of sickness. “Told him what we found in that cabin of Wesson’s. Hit him hard.” He took a deep breath, releasing it with slow deliberation and regaining control over his own gagging reflex. “I’m going back to Hotch. You coming?”

Morgan hesitated, the vision of his leader’s purpled jaw reasserting itself over and above that of the cabin interior. He shook his head. “Not yet. I think I’ll have a little talk of my own with…him.” He jerked his chin toward the bathroom.

Rossi gave the younger agent a suspicious look. “No hitting, Derek. There’s been enough of that.”

“Don’t worry.” Morgan leaned against the doorjamb, prepared to wait as long as necessary for his sickly, green-tinged quarry to emerge. “You told him about the cabin. I’m gonna tell him about the man he hit.”

Rossi nodded, and almost smiled. But the picture he’d painted of Elijah Wesson’s handiwork was too fresh in his mind.

Smiling wasn’t an option.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Lingering in the hallway, Dr. Adamson waited to waylay Rossi.

“Agent, do you have a minute?”

Something in the man’s demeanor caused warning flags to pop up. Rossi stopped short of Hotch’s room. His worried glance couldn’t help flicking toward the Unit Chief’s door. “Problem, Doc?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Adamson was behind on his rounds thanks to the morning’s excitement with the agents and the Scanlon family. He cut to the chase. “I don’t treat many patients whose jobs keep them under chronic stress of the kind you agents face on a regular basis.”

He drew a breath, nodding toward Hotch’s room. “That one in there also has the tension that goes with leadership. And from what I saw of his body, this isn’t the first time he’s been injured. His reactions are…off. Not something I can point to with confidence, but…something’s not right with him.”

The two men’s eyes met.

“A-n-d?” With that one word, Rossi felt he was opening a door on something he already knew existed, but preferred to ignore.

“And I think his emotional break yesterday might just be the tip of the iceberg.”

Rossi’s only response was to swallow a sudden lump of anxiety that made an appearance in his throat, with an echoing presence in his stomach.

Dr. Adamson saw it as proof of his belief that his patient and this older agent had a bond that surpassed that of the workplace. “Mr. Hotchner says he needs to go home, so I’ll release him. But keep an eye on him. Look for any other cracks in his emotional armor.”

Rossi’s regard was steady, but worried.

“If the FBI has psychologists on staff, it might be good to get him in to see one. Or one that’s not connected to the workplace, if that’s a problem.” Adamson shrugged, paying tribute to on-the-job politics and how sometimes even a breath of suspicion concerning mental issues could hijack a promising career.

“Most of all, see if you can get him to relax. He has to spend some time convalescing as it is. If you can, make sure it’s stress-free.”

Rossi nodded, but there was a distant look in his eyes.

He wouldn’t be the one overseeing Hotch’s downtime. Haley would.


	81. Laudable Loon

Robert Scanlon was ready to call it a day.

The older FBI agent who’d cuffed him had given him a mental image, a taste of reality, of what could happen if children were unwary of strangers. Scanlon wasn’t a man with a particularly vivid imagination, but he couldn’t escape the description of a crime scene mere miles away. Not very far from where he’d built his happy, secure life. _And_ involving two girls who had been from a small town; the kind that Scanlon would have smiled at as he drove through, deeming it ‘a nice, safe place to raise the kids.’

He’d managed to rinse the caustic taste of  vomit from his mouth. He couldn’t wash the images from his mind as easily. Arms braced on the sink, he raised his face to the mirror, noting the haunted, hollow-eyed look he hoped would fade. There were tears trailing down his cheeks. He hadn’t known. He couldn’t stop them.

Scanlon didn’t want to frighten his wife or children by showing them such a distraught visage, but more than anything else…more than anything in the world…he wanted to sweep his little ones to his chest and hold them until all the crazy monsters in the world who wore perfectly normal disguises, who walked among us and lived beside us, were gone.

At the same time, he realized that would never happen. _The world will never be safe…Never…_

He straightened, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing them to behave, to dry up so he could run, Run, RUN to his little family. _Oh, God, I need to see them. Hold them…_

The sharp rap on the doorjamb made him turn. He snuffled back the congestion tears always inflicted on his sinuses and tried to sound formidable. Because in the doorway was a stranger. A possible monster. _Is that how I’ll see **everyone** now?_

“Who’re you?”

“Agent Derek Morgan.” A badge was held up for Scanlon to inspect through tear-blurred vision. “That was my boss who ran into your fist back there.”

“Look, I already apologized to that other guy. But, I thought he’d done something to my little Brenda, my daughter.” Scanlon hated the tear that survived his best efforts and, defying control, slid down to his jawline.

Morgan ducked his head. He felt sorry for this man who’d heard a description that Rossi, author _extraordinaire_ , had probably crafted with uncanny ability to hit his audience in the heart. But he had to do something in Hotch’s defense, too. “I understand you made a mistake. I just want to tell you another part of the story.”

Scanlon grimaced, stomach and chest muscles constricting…a prelude to more tears. “I don’t think I can hear anymore. Just, please…leave me alone.”

Morgan gave his head a single, emphatic shake. “ _This_ you’re gonna hear.” He saw the man’s features contort with dreadful anticipation. “What I have to say isn’t ugly, though. I’m gonna tell you about the guy you hit. About everything he’s sacrificed and worked for so the world’ll be a little safer for families like yours. As terrible as the monsters are, there are guys who balance the scales by being as good as the monsters are bad.”

Uncertain, Scanlon’s eyes searched the stranger’s face.

Morgan pushed off from leaning against the doorjamb. “Have a seat.” He gestured toward the bed. Scanlon looked wary as he moved to obey. Morgan walked to the room’s floor-to-ceiling windowed wall. It was debatable as to whether or not he actually saw the landscape at which he was gazing. His voice lowered to an introspective, almost reverential tone.

“Aaron Hotchner got shot a couple days ago because it was the only way to stop him from throwing his life away. At least…that’s what I thought. He was running to where he believed two little girls…” Morgan glanced back at the man perched on the edge of the bed. “…girls about the same age as yours…were waiting to be rescued.”

The agent’s voice went soft. For a moment Scanlon thought he was talking to himself. “Put a child in danger in front of that man, and no power on earth will be able to stop him. Short of death. Short of a bullet. Like that horse that broke its leg in the Kentucky Derby, but finished the race anyway. Won’t stop. Can’t. Will run to his death for the sake others.” Morgan shook himself back from where his musings had taken him. When he continued, his tone was stronger, more sure of itself.

“Things aren’t always what they seem with Hotch.” He gave Scanlon a considering look. “You know that there are companies…services…that clean up the blood and spattered brains and ruined furnishings at crime scenes?”

Mute, Scanlon shook his head, eyes never leaving the agent at the window. This was knowledge he could do without.

“Well, there are. Can you imagine being the victim of a crime or the relative of a victim, and having to clean your own bodily fluids or those of a loved one yourself, smelling them? Touching them? Or even if you knew to call a company…can you imagine how that would feel? To be responsible for that? To put it on your VISA or American Express?” This time Morgan didn’t look for a response.

“My boss, the guy you hit…he ain’t no saint. He does have blood on his hands. Just not the way you think. He’s covered with blood he’s cleaned off of the walls and floors of a victim’s apartment by himself, thinking no one would know he was the one who slipped in past the yellow tape and tried to make things right…or at least better…for the victim’s homecoming. You can’t see the blood on him, but it’s there. Inside.”

Morgan shook his head, letting a faint smile appear. “He does stuff like that. He can’t turn his back when there’s something he could do to help. Sometimes it’s little things, like sending flowers to a tech analyst who needs something of life and prettiness to help her make it through the workplace horror. Sometimes it’s less material, but more important, like making time for a kid who’s lost someone and might have questions or just needs to know there’s another heart beating in the world that understands his particular loss.

“Thing is…” Morgan finally turned to face Scanlon, looking down at him where he sat. “…the guy’s soft, but he’s not weak. Took me a long time to understand his kind of strength. Don’t get me wrong: my boss can slug it out with the best when he has to, but his real strength is what he doles out when the rest of us are through. We walk away from each case, and go back to our own little corners, but he’s still out there in the center ring, trying to ease things back to a less painful place for everyone who’s been hurt. Except himself. Doesn’t seem to see himself as ever needing that kind of help.”

Morgan shrugged. “So I don’t know. Maybe he’s strong, or maybe he’s stupid, or maybe a little bit of both, but he puts more on the line for the welfare of strangers than anyone will ever officially know. And I like him. A lot.

“And I **don’t** like it when he gets hurt.”

 _But!_ the tiny, ugly voice inside Derek whispered, **_You’re_** _the one who hurt Hotch the worst…Pot calling the kettle, eh, Agent Morgan?…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi watched the doctor’s back receding down the hallway, intent on resuming his normal, daily routine now that calm had been restored and loose ends tidied as much as was appropriate.

After a moment, Dave moved to Hotch’s door. Hesitating outside, he heard small, subtle movements, but nothing to justify the alarm gathering like bird’s wings, flapping insistently in his stomach.

 _That doc thinks Aaron needs mental help. How do I handle this?_ He thought he heard Hotch say something through the closed door, but couldn’t be sure. _No. Not ‘mental’ help. **Emotional** help. And isn’t that something I’ve known for quite a while now? So man up, Rossi. Handle it the way you’d want it done if you were the one with too much on his emotional plate right now. Tell him straight out. And then stand by him._

Rossi tapped on the door with one finger. Without waiting for a response, he pushed it open, peeking around the corner.

Hotch was on the phone. He raised his brows and chin, indicating Dave should enter.

“I don’t know the exact time. We have to gather the team and file a flight plan.” Hotch nodded, a small ghost of a smile appearing and as quickly fading. “I love you too. And I promise I won’t. I’ll let you know when we’re in the air. Love you.” The glow disappeared from the phone’s screen. Hotch slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Rossi noticed the man was packed and ready to go. He wore sweatpants, a t-shirt and a windbreaker. He stood straight, shoulders back. The only indicators that Hotch had been wounded were his clothes which accommodated his bandage, the ashen cast to his complexion, and the dusky bruise on his jaw.

“Was that Haley?” Rossi nodded toward the pocket into which the phone had disappeared.

“Yeah. She’s waiting.” Hotch looked down for a moment. “The Bureau’s gonna enforce mandatory convalescence, aren’t they, Dave.” It wasn’t a question; more like an unhappy affirmation.

Rossi nodded. “At least a week. More likely two, but we’ll find out for sure when we get back.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told Haley. Said she’d have to put up with me underfoot for a few days.”

“She’s worried, of course.”

Hotch considered. “Actually, she sounded pleased.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing, Aaron. You promised her something?”

The Unit Chief glanced up, recalling. “Oh, yeah. When I said I’d be home today, she made me promise not to get lost on the way.”

Rossi sighed. _Oh, Aaron…I think you might already be. But I’ll help you find your way back. That’s **my** promise._

Aloud, he sounded as though nothing were on his mind. “I’ll get J.J. to set up the flight and notify the others. Morgan’s already here. I’ll go round him up.”

At the door, Rossi paused, looking back at his best friend. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Aaron. We have some things to talk about on the way back.”

The shadowed look in Hotch’s eyes made Rossi think that the subject of emotional health wouldn’t come as too much of a surprise when he broached it on the jet.


	82. Schrodinger's Catbird

It was a subdued team of agents that climbed the stairs to the jet’s hatchway.

Hotch had been keeping a stoic façade in place from the moment he’d signed his discharge papers and left the hospital. Still, he couldn’t fail to notice how Morgan had appropriated his go-bag, nudging his boss out of the way to prevent him from the awkward maneuver of trying to pick the thing up himself. Hotch was also aware of his second-in-command shadowing him as he labored his way up the stairs and into the cabin.

For his part, Morgan was mindful of how the Unit Chief ran out of steam halfway up, but pushed himself to keep going in a silence tinged with desperation. Silent, that is, until he felt Derek’s palm flatten against his lower back; not exactly boosting him, but acting more like a safeguard, a preventive measure should he crumple and tumble backwards toward the tarmac.

“I’m okay, Morgan.” Said through clenched teeth and powered by shortened breath, the statement made the word ‘liar’ flit through Derek’s mind.

“I know.” But Morgan’s hand stayed firmly in place until Hotch had achieved the jet interior.

When his boss stepped to the side, Morgan assumed he had done so to take a breather after the steep ascent. He pushed past Hotch, intending to take his go-bag to the central seating area where the team customarily gathered for debriefing or decompressing at the start of each trip home.

“Morgan, wait. Leave my bag here, please.”

Hotch stood at the very front of the cabin, closest to the cockpit and as isolated as one could get; neither the restrooms nor the tiny galley would bring foot traffic near. Morgan’s head swiveled toward the area where the others were stowing luggage and flopping into seats, companionably close. He looked back at the Unit Chief.

“You sure?” He tipped his head toward the rapidly populating central section; at once an unspoken invitation and question.

“Y-e-a-h…” Hotch aspirated his reply on a sigh. “I’m kind of tired.”

Lips compressed, Morgan placed the bag on a facing seat where it could be reached without too much strain to a man’s midriff. Instead of turning to join the others, he stepped closer to Hotch, placing a hand on one shoulder, giving his leader a gentle shake.

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Morgan read the tired lines sketching strain across Hotch’s brow. He ran his hand down the man’s arm from shoulder to elbow, ending with a rough pat to the bicep. “You wanna talk? About anything?” He couldn’t keep from glancing toward Hotch’s waist where bulky gauze dressing pressed outward on the waistband of his sweats.

Hotch’s shoulders slumped. He _was_ tired, but his subordinate needed reassurance. _And probably will from time to time for several weeks at least._ “Morgan, I’m fine. And I never thanked you for what you did…out there.”

The younger agent’s eyes widened, but then dropped to the floor. There was no way he could factor gratitude into the incident of Elijah Wesson’s cabin.

Hotch read him like a book, and thought he knew how to show Morgan a way out of his guilt. Or at least keep him occupied for a while so his Unit Chief could be alone. It was something Reid had once explained to Hotch. Knowing the genius’ passion for expounding on theoretical science, Hotch didn’t feel guilty about pointing Morgan his way. _Reid’ll enjoy himself. Morgan’ll get some validation for his decision...maybe. And I’ll get some privacy. **Three** birds with one stone._

“You faced a tough choice, Morgan. Of course, I haven’t seen the reports…” Hotch flicked a hopeful glance Derek’s way, but didn’t see any encouragement there. He had to accept that the reports would remain off limits. “…but the way Rossi described the situation it was a case of Schrodinger’s cat.”

“Say what?” Morgan raised his chin, giving Hotch a sidelong look.

“Something Reid taught me. Ask him.” When Derek wavered between staying with his leader or joining the others… “That’s an order.”

“Fine.” Sounding a little perturbed, Morgan turned away, but stopped, looking back as Hotch took a seat, adjusting himself in consideration of his injury. “But if you need anything, just say. Or signal. We’ll be checkin’ on you, man.”

Hotch watched as Morgan moved to the center seating area, purposefully settling into a position that gave him a clear line of sight to his boss.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi observed his teammates.

Dour. Quiet. None of the usual banter. He could understand. They were coming off of a case that defied the usual safeguard of compartmentalization. The image of the little girls who’d been…altered…wouldn’t leave him alone either.

_And I have a lot more experience than the rest of them with putting horror in its place and walking away without looking back._

But this was more than the visual burn, the aftereffects of Elijah Wesson’s handiwork. This was interpersonal issues, too. And Rossi knew the focal point. After they were well underway; after he’d seen Hotch make a call he assumed was to apprise Haley of their ETA, the older agent made his way back to where Hotch sat, eyes closed, but posture rigid in an effort to accommodate the bullet wound in his side. He slipped into a seat opposite the Unit Chief’s, reaching out to announce his presence by tapping the man’s thigh. Hotch’s voice arrested him mid-movement.

“What do you want, Dave? I know it’s you.” Dark eyes opened, but instead of the knowing gotcha! glint he could normally expect, there was only mournfulness.

Rossi leaned back, holding Hotch’s gaze. “Why aren’t you sitting with the others?”

“I’m tired. That okay with you?”

Rossi nodded, disliking the adversarial tone in his friend’s response. “Well, that’s understandable, given what you’ve been through.”

Hotch’s eyes sharpened. “I don’t really know _what_ I’ve been through. Not unless I get a chance to read the reports and see the crime scene photos.”

“We made a deal, Aaron. You and Morgan shook on it. You’re not the kind of guy who goes back on a handshake.” Hotch’s stare remained steady. Rossi sighed, leaning forward, elbows on knees, keeping his voice confidential. “We didn’t let Reid or J.J. see the photos either. I signed off on the reports so J.J. won’t have them crossing her desk. Nor will you.” He sat back, expression as stolid as Hotch’s; not giving an inch. “That’s an end to it. There are other things we need to discuss.”

Hotch gave it a good try. He kept his narrow, piercing regard fixed on his friend. It got him nowhere. Finally, he had to admit defeat. He emitted a small, disgusted sigh. “Alright. What’s on your mind? I’m listening.”

Rossi glanced back over his shoulder at the glum group of agents staring out windows or giving books whose pages never turned vacant-eyed attention, caught up in silent introspection. “Look at your team. They’re off, Hotch. We all are.”

This time the Unit Chief’s sigh was deep with concern as he assessed the expressions and body language personifying his team at the moment. When he returned his regard to Rossi, there was nothing of opposition in it. “How can I help them get over this case, if I don’t know what it is they had to face? I can’t work in a vacuum, Dave.”

Rossi’s mind was racing at near-Reid speed. He was beginning to see the glimmerings of a path through the bramble-tangle of issues facing them all. Or at least the trailhead, if not the complete path.

“You don’t need to be the one to talk them through it, Aaron. But they do need help.” He lowered his voice. “You trust my professional opinion, right?” Hotch’s nod was gratifying. “Well, I think we should make someone on the outside available to them.”

Hotch’s nod turned to a shake. “I don’t like bringing outsiders in. You know that. There are trust and privacy issues…” _Which have already been broken with me_. “…and there’s always the chance of a leak; of something getting back to Strauss or the Director. Then the whole team would come under scrutiny. I don’t think _any_ of us want that.”

Rossi spoke so softly, Hotch had to strain to hear. “This job puts you in touch with a lot of people in a lot of different walks of life.” He looked back at the team again, unnecessarily checking for eavesdroppers. “What if I get someone I know personally? Someone trustworthy and sensitive to our kind of work? Someone I can guarantee won’t go tattling to _anyone_. What about that?”

Hotch mulled the proposal. He _was_ tired. He didn’t have the energy to wrestle a whole new can of worms like team morale. And every good leader knew the value of being able to delegate. He sighed again. “It’ll still be a hard sell to get them on board with something like that. They’ll obey a direct order, but obeying isn’t the same as fully cooperating. This could foster some resentment.”

Rossi grabbed for his opening. “Then we set them an example. You and me; we’ll go first. Agreed?” He hoped Hotch didn’t notice how intently he was being observed. He hadn’t known he’d been holding his breath until the Unit Chief gave a slow, resigned nod.

“Okay. We’ll do it that way. For the team.” Rossi actually smiled when Hotch added. “Let me know when you have it set up. I’ll go first.”

It was what any truly good leader would do. Lead.

 

xxxxxxx

 

No one felt like talking.

Morgan sat where he could keep an eye on Hotch, but when Rossi went to the Unit Chief’s side, he felt he could transfer his attention elsewhere. At least until Rossi returned and Hotch was on his own again. Morgan glanced at Reid, noticing the speed-reader had been staring at the same page for an unprecedented thirty seconds. Clearly, the young genius’ mind was elsewhere.

“Hey. Pretty Boy…Hey!” Morgan leaned over, jogging Reid’s elbow enough to bring him back from wherever he’d been wandering. It earned him a brief frown.

“Cut it out, Morgan.” Reid kept his eyes focused on his book; a protest against his teammate’s bid for attention.

“I would, but Hotch told me to ask you something. Said you could explain.” Morgan’s tone changed. The slight edge of banter left it. A sadder, more hollow note entered. “Said it might explain something about what happened when I…when I shot him.”

Reid looked up. So did Prentiss and J.J.

“That wasn’t your fault, Derek.” Prentiss’ brow furrowed with concern. “I was there. I saw it. I’m _proud_ of you.” It was said with defiance. _I **dare** you to dis my partner. I’ll take down **any** one who does. Even if it’s my partner doing the dissing._

Morgan tried to smile, but couldn’t. The best he could manage was a lackluster twist to one side of his lips. It was painful for his teammates to watch. Reid interceded.

“So what did Hotch say to ask me?”

“Something about a cat.”

Brows drew even closer together. Looks were exchanged. Morgan saw more information was needed.

“Schroeder’s cat?”

“Schroeder? You mean the kid from the Peanuts comic strip?” J.J. offered. “I don’t remember anyone having a pet but Charlie Brown. In fact, I don’t remember any cats at all.”

“No! Not a comic strip. It sounded like a legit science thing. Hotch said Reid explained it to him and he wanted him to do the same for me.”

“O-h-h-h! You mean _Schrodinger’s_ cat!” The note of revelation in Reid’s sudden understanding was lost on his teammates. “Yeah. I see what he means.” The young doctor nodded, feeling gratified that his discussion with Hotch of a theoretical interpretation of quantum mechanics had been grasped, and that his boss had even found a practical application for the principle involved. Reid had long suspected that Hotch’s IQ might rival his own. He thought the difference between them was that he cast his intellect over the world like a net, while Hotch focused his like a laser. _Just because Hotch hasn’t heard of or studied something, doesn’t mean he can’t learn it and bend it to his own use._

With a small grin, Reid looked around at his audience. “Schrodinger’s cat is an illustration of when quantum superposition ends and reality collapses into one specific possibility. Imagine a cat in a box with a flask of poison…”

“No! No! Absolutely not!” J.J.’s wide eyes blinked her distress. After this case, she didn’t want any more ugliness dumped on her. Not even in the form of what sounded in danger of becoming one of the mathematical story problems she’d hated so much in grade school.

“Jeez, Reid! Who the hell poisons a cat as part of some stupid experiment?!” Prentiss, mother of Sergio, was equally unhappy with the subject matter.

“It’s not a real cat, guys! It’s just an example of…”

“ _NO!_ ” Both women voiced their stamp of disapproval in unison.

Reid slumped down in his seat, muttering his abbreviated version mostly for Morgan’s benefit. “It just means you didn’t know what was in that cabin when you fired your gun, Morgan. It means that for everyone outside, including Hotch, both realities existed at that moment. Explosives _and_ no explosives. It means you did the right thing.”

He shifted his eyes toward his female teammates. “There’s more to it, but _some_ people aren’t interested in expanding their understanding of quantum mechanics.”

“No cat abuse stories, Dr. Reid. _Ever_!” Prentiss fixed her young colleague with a withering look long enough to get her point across. When she was sure he had subsided back to staring at his book, she resumed gazing out the window.

There were more important things to think about than make-believe cats. Like all the things they still needed to set right with Hotch.


	83. Love Bird Flushed

Once Hotch had agreed to take the lead in talking to an outside counselor, Rossi was content to leave team issues on the sidelines and let his boss relax.

Standing, he smiled and nodded toward the little galley at the opposite end of the cabin. “I’m gonna get a snack. You want anything? A drink maybe?” He raised his brows in invitation.

“No. Thanks anyway. Not hungry. Or thirsty.”

Rossi’s smile did a slow fade-to-frown. He resumed his seat facing Hotch.

“What?” The Unit Chief’s wide, unassuming eyes put Dave in mind of a boy who knew he’d done something wrong and was trying to think how to bluff his way out of parental interrogation.

Rossi leaned in toward the younger man once more. _I’m not gonna let him weasel his way out of it. For this, at least, I **will** have an answer._

“Why aren’t you hungry, Aaron?”

“I’m just not.”

“You were yesterday. We ate Chinese, remember?”

“Sure I remember.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I even remember what the fortune cookies said.”

“So how come you’re not hungry today? I brought you breakfast and I’d be willing to bet that sandwich is still sitting on your nightstand. What’s going on?”

Hotch heaved a long-suffering sigh that made him wince when expanding lungs impacted his stitches. For a moment he met Rossi’s eyes with a pleading look in his own. “Any chance you could let this go, Dave? I’m kinda tired.”

Rossi’s voice was soft with sympathy, but firm with intention, when he replied. “Then the sooner we clear up why you can’t eat after a case, the sooner you can take a nap. C’mon, Aaron. What’s wrong?”

When Hotch’s eyes darted away, an evasive maneuver, Rossi dug a little deeper. “I used to think it was the cases themselves. The severity of them. That your digestion couldn’t handle food while the images of bodies, of victims, were too fresh in your mind. Now, I’m not so sure that’s it.”

Hotch looked up, the expression on his face one Rossi could read as either startled or guilty. But continued silence made Dave decide to use the verbal equivalent of a cattle prod.

“You ate yesterday. So your appetite isn’t a barometer for how gory a case might be.” He motioned toward Hotch’s side, held stiff and straight in deference to still-tender tissue and muscles. “And it’s not the injury, ‘cause that probably hurt more yesterday than today. So, the only other conclusion I can draw…” Rossi bit his lip for a moment, hoping he wasn’t crossing any lines. “…Aaron…do you lose your appetite because…because you know you’re going home? Is it…Haley?”

Hotch’s face was blank, eyes fixed on Rossi’s. “This isn’t really something I want to talk about, Dave. Do you mind?” As polite as the words were, they held an edge of command. _Take the hint. No trespassing, old friend._

But Rossi _did_ mind.

“Hotch…Aaron…are you so unhappy at home? Would you actually rather be out in the field looking at blood and body parts?” The darkness pooling in the younger man’s eyes tugged at Rossi’s heart, but was ultimately uninformative. “C’mon…” He jogged Hotch’s knee, gentle emphasis, a plea for communication. _Stunned. He looks stunned. But is it because I hit the nail on the head? Or that I’m so far off, he can’t believe it?_

“Dave.” Hotch’s head shook in disbelief; small, repetitive arcs like a metronome measuring beats of incredulity. “My God. Is that what you think? Really?”

“Unless you give me another reason.”

“You’ve been married three times. Probably had countless other…uh… _encounters_ …”Rossi dipped his chin in acknowledgement of his testosterone-fueled past. “…but…haven’t you ever been, you know…in love?”

It was Rossi’s turn to blink, momentarily stupefied. “Sure, I’ve been in love. What’s that got to do with…” His voice faded as paths linked to long-ago memories opened. He remembered the eagerness, the tunnel-vision where nothing and no one mattered. His world narrowed down to the sight, the sound, the scent of the woman he adored. He lost all ability to focus his thoughts on anything other than her. He couldn’t sleep, but the deprivation was blissful; filled with imaginings and daydreams of _her_. He couldn’t eat…

The moment of comprehension registered on Rossi’s face, flash-freezing him mid-sentence.

Hotch wanted to be prim and stern, reminding his friend that this was, again, highly personal territory. But, ducking his head, he couldn’t help the tiny, tired twist to his lips at Dave’s thunderstruck expression.

And then it didn’t matter. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe it was the dull, throbbing ache of his wound whose rhythm imitated a heartbeat. Maybe it was having the door to his personal life thrust open so many times, by so many people, it might never close properly again.

Hotch exhaled.

“I love her, Dave. I don’t understand her, but I love her.”

Finally, Rossi dropped his gaze to his own interlaced fingers resting in his lap. “Yeah. I know. But that first thrill of it all that makes you pretty much a zombie…that doesn’t last.”

Hotch heard his friend’s skepticism and shrugged as best he could, wincing when the movement pulled on his waist, aggravating his injury yet again. “Don’t know, Dave. All I can say is the thrill is _not_ gone.”

Rossi shook his head, giving a long, muted, agonized groan. “Ohhhhh…Aaron…. You’re not just in love. You’re _falling_ in love.” He leaned back in his seat, observing a rare phenomenon. “You’re _still_ falling. You’ve never stopped.”

Secretly, Rossi thought, _You poor bastard. You’re either the luckiest man in the world…or the most cursed. Time will tell._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Emily Prentiss was not the type to sit on her hands, bide her time, wait for an opening, suck her thumb….

That’s what she felt she was doing. That’s what she felt the _entire team_ , except for Rossi, was doing. She stared out the window, watching the sky change from clear to cloudy to clear again, to dark, as they jetted across the continent through different regions and weather fronts. But she kept one eye on the front of the cabin where Rossi and Hotch were conferring.

_This has gone on long enough. We gotta talk to Hotch and set things right. But doing it as a group is ganging up on him. So when Rossi leaves…he’s mine._

It took a while, but eventually Rossi stood, stretched, and walked to the galley at the opposite end of the cabin. Prentiss rose and beat a determined path to her Unit Chief.

His eyes were closed.

She hesitated. Hotch looked tired. And pale. And weak. _And maybe that’s because of us. Maybe we need to dive in and make it all better. And I’ll go first._

“Hotch.” Prentiss bent and backhanded her boss’ thigh. “Hotch, you got a minute?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He opened his eyes, pulled up straighter, partly to present himself as being aware; partly because, if he relaxed, his side hurt. He nodded toward the seat opposite; the one Rossi had just vacated.

Prentiss shook her head. “No. I don’t need to sit or get ‘in depth’ like Rossi does. Just wanna say…” She latched onto her leader’s dark caramel eyes. “…just wanna say…it’s simple, Hotch. We hurt you, ‘cause we care. And as long as you are who you are, and as long as we are your team, you’re gonna get cared about. And that means intruding, and messing with you, and hurting you. And caring for you. Never gonna stop. And vice versa. You can mess with us any time you want.”

Hotch gazed into the eyes darker than his own. Prentiss was his female alpha, although he’d never tell her so. But as surely as Haley called to his heart, this woman called to the creature that crouched in his gut, and made him professional…unstoppable. She was a wolf. And they spoke the same language.

“I know.”

“Then don’t hurt _because_ of us. Hurt _with_ us.”

Hotch took in a sharp breath, and placed a hand on his side. Where it hurt. Almost as much as being cared for.

“Okay. Maybe. I’ll try.”

It was all Prentiss…or any of them…could hope for.


	84. Gilded Cage

Morgan frowned, watching Prentiss return to her seat after having had a brief word with Hotch. She had a vague almost-smile.

“What was that all about?”

Emily flopped into her seat, shrugging one shoulder. “Nothing. Just a little pep talk.”

Morgan looked back to where his boss was once again struggling to find a comfortable position. “He okay?” If his eyes had been trained on Prentiss instead, he might have seen the mischievous glint creeping into hers.

“W-e-l-l, if you don’t count being attacked in the supposed safety of a hospital, and if you ignore being shot down by one of your own…” Morgan’s head snapped around, guilt and horror warring for dominance over his features. “…then, _yeah!_ He’s fine.”

“Emily, behave.” J.J. bit her own lip to keep an inappropriate chuckle under control.

Realizing he was being taunted, Morgan huddled in on himself, arms crossed, scowl prominent. “‘S not funny, guys.”

“Sorry.” But everyone knew she wasn’t. Prentiss dug a paperback out of her go-bag and settled back, able to concentrate now that she felt she’d mended her fences with Hotch.

Morgan continued to track the Unit Chief’s unsuccessful attempts to accommodate his wound. When Rossi returned from the galley, carrying a glass of his private stash of scotch, Morgan waylaid him.

“Hey, Rossi…” He pointed his chin in Hotch’s direction. “Did they give him anything to take for pain?”

“Yeah.” Rossi grunted as he lowered himself into his seat. “I filled a prescription at the hospital pharmacy before we left. But you know Hotch. He’d rather suffer in silence.”

“Yeah, well, he’s makin’ us suffer, too. Where’re the pills?”

Sighing, Rossi dug into his jacket pocket, producing a small, amber-tinted bottle. He dropped it into Morgan’s waiting palm. “Good luck.”

As Derek started down the aisle, Prentiss’ voice followed him. “Be careful. Don’t, ya know, accidentally _hurt_ him or something.”

“E-m-i-l-y…” Rossi shook his head.

“What?!” She didn’t bother concealing her grin. “It’s aversion therapy. Eventually, he won’t let the guilt get to him, ‘cause he’ll know I’ll take a whack at him.”

“It’s not aversion therapy.” Reid’s quiet voice chimed in. “It’s just your hobby. But…” He watched Morgan standing over their leader, engaged in discussion as he exhibited the pill bottle. “…it would be better if Hotch took care of his pain. He’d heal faster and avoid the effects pain has on raising stress levels and…”

J.J.’s hand on his arm halted the young doctor’s speech. “Maybe you should tell him, Spence.”

Reid swallowed, staring into his co-worker’s eyes. “I dunno…”

“Gotta talk to him sometime, Reid.” Prentiss spoke from the satisfaction of feeling she’d righted things with her boss already. “Might as well break the ice by starting with some info that could help him heal.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.” But watching Morgan, Reid thought Hotch would appreciate time to lick his wounds in private before too many more people dragged him into conversation.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Can’t watch you squirming around anymore, man.”

Morgan stood before Hotch, hand extended, rattling the pills in their bottle in what he hoped was an inviting way. Apparently, his boss didn’t think so.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Hotch, why are you so hard on yourself? Huh?” The exasperation in Morgan’s tone was plain to hear.

“Why is everyone so interested in whether I eat or drink or take pills or…”

“Because you’re part of us. Not just one of us… _part_ of us.” Morgan bit back the terse words he’d been about to say, knowing that arguing wouldn’t get him anywhere. He raised his hands, palms outward in a staving-off gesture. “Okay, okay. I don’t wanna stress you out, but here’s the deal: meet me halfway and I’ll leave you in peace.”

Hotch’s brows rose. “Halfway?”

“Yeah. If you won’t take anything to help with the pain, then at least let me make you a place where you can stretch out. Then you and your pain can keep each other company and I won’t say anything more.”

The lure of a more comfortable place to lie down was working. It meant moving closer to the rest of the team, but Hotch was beginning to realize that taking a seat off by himself was no guarantee of solitude. As it was, three out of five had beaten a track to his side. He saw no reason that pattern wouldn’t continue. He sighed and began to lever himself up.

“Alright. Deal. And thanks.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…” Morgan placed a restraining hand on Hotch’s shoulder, pushing him down, forcing him to resume his seat. “Stay put, man. I’ll get a place set up and then…” His grin flashed forth. “…and then I’ll come get you and tuck you in for a nice, long nap.”

Hotch shook his head, but remained where he was. He was learning when to admit defeat and accept help.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley was practically frothing with impatience.

Hotch had called her when the jet landed, but had vetoed her offer to come pick him up. He said he was perfectly capable of driving and, anticipating the mandatory recuperation that would be imposed upon him, he didn’t want to leave his car at the Bureau that long, nor did he want to inconvenience anyone else with having to arrange delivering it to his home.

“You’re sure, sweetheart? You won’t really need your car if you’re supposed to be taking it easy.” Her voice lowered to a more sultry tone. “And I can’t wait to see you…I’ve been so worried.”

Hotch heard the note of longing and felt his stomach do that peculiar jumping, leaping, vaulting thing that he felt every time he realized someone had loved him enough to marry him; to commit to spending the rest of her life with _him_. And not just anyone, but one of the popular, successful girls, too.

He didn’t profile how he felt or why. Not deeply anyway. Maybe even someone as grounded and level as Aaron Hotchner harbored a tiny grain of desperate superstition. If he examined the phenomenon of Haley’s love too closely, it might vanish like a puff of dandelion fluff. And if that happened, he might disappear, too. At the very least, his heart would shatter.

But Hotch was firm; he needed to drive himself home. Just in case.

There had been too many bouts of raging emotion lately. He didn’t want to chance unleashing another on unsuspecting Haley. It might be necessary to pull over to the side of the road on the way home, if tears threatened his control yet again.

_Maybe some time off is a good thing. And maybe Dave’s idea about an outsider to talk to is good, too._

So now, Hotch’s wife paced from kitchen to window to living room to window to bedroom to window, straining to hear a car’s familiar humming engine on the deserted nighttime street.

And when she finally heard it, Haley was out the door and halfway down the front walk before Hotch even got his door open. She watched him struggle out of the driver’s seat and assessed immediately where he’d been shot by the way the body she knew so well moved.

She had her arms around him as soon as he was standing, exerting careful pressure. Enough to communicate that _this_ was where he belonged, and _who_ he belonged to. Not enough to cause pain to damaged flesh she intended to subject to close examination at the earliest opportunity.

With his neck bent, face buried against his wife’s shoulder, Hotch didn’t see the black BMW’s slow drive-by. But Haley did.

 _Dave. Checking to make sure Aaron got home safely._ She gave the subtlest, briefest of nods; more an acknowledgement of the older man’s presence than of gratitude.

 _Don’t get me wrong, Dave. I’m glad you look out for him, but once he’s here, you can back off._ Haley’s eyes narrowed as she murmured soft endearments in her husband’s ear.

_Don’t get me wrong. And don’t get in my way._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch felt like a shaky colt.

Once inside his home, he relaxed his physical guard, if not his emotional one. All the tension and stress and misadventure seeped into his bones, making him feel unsteady and spindly.

Haley relieved him of his jacket, noting his careful movements. Placing a palm against the side of his jaw that didn’t sport a livid bruise, she turned his face into the light. “Let me look at you, sweetheart.”

Hotch hung his head and submitted to inspection. Eyes closed, he felt his wife’s light touch explore him. When she was done, she trailed her lips across the bruise, giving a tiny nip to the corner of his mouth. Marking her territory, but not demanding anything other than recognition of her right to do so. He appreciated that. Ovulation or not, he was once again sub-par.

“Aaron, are you hungry?” Haley saw the mournful look in his eyes, the apologetic twist to his lips. “No, of course you’re not.” She sighed. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to make it upstairs, so I made up a bed on the couch, if you need it.”

Hotch raised his eyes toward the staircase. It would feel so good to be in his own bed. “I think I can make it. I just need to go slow.”

He felt he was doing fairly well navigating each step, until he felt Haley’s hand flatten against his lower back. It reminded him of Morgan’s silent, stalwart aid when boarding the jet. Which, in turn, reminded him of how he’d been shot in the first place. _And maybe that’s one of those little workplace details I don’t share with my wife._ Hotch had a feeling such knowledge would fuel the wrong fire…the fire that wanted to burn his ties to the BAU and shunt him into a nice, safe, dull, workaday existence.

In the bedroom, Haley had everything in readiness. She’d had too much time to imagine the severity of her man’s injuries. Hotch felt an inner thrill that manifested as a small smile when he saw extra pillows, reading material, a heating pad on the nightstand sharing space with the kind of cold compress that would keep its chill for hours. It was validating and heartwarming and eternally surprising to see the evidence of being cared for. Which, in turn, reminded him of Prentiss’ affirmation of how he’d have to buck up and shut up, because the team would never stop caring for him either.

Hotch felt like a very lucky man despite his groans as Haley undressed him and settled him between the sheets.

She wadded up the sweats he’d been wearing, intending to take them down to the laundry room. Before doing so, she sat on the bed beside him, stroking his hair and studying his face.

“Can I get you anything? A drink maybe?”

Hotch shook his head, gazing back at her. “I’m sorry, Haley. I got hurt again. I’m sorry.”

She pressed her lips into a tight line. “See why I wish you’d work at something else?” Her eyes filled. “You’ve been hurt too much, Aaron. All your life you’ve been hurt. You deserve to be happy for a change.”

Which reminded Hotch that she’d delved into his childhood.

The warm glow he’d had was displaced by a lump of icy dread. It robbed him of speech. _How much does she know? Who told her?_

Haley caressed his cheek. Leaning in, she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Rest. We’ll talk later. We’ve got time for a change; you won’t be called out for at least a week. Maybe more.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Driving home, Rossi gave the steering wheel a frustrated smack.

 _Damn it! I’ve still got Hotch’s painkillers._ Morgan had been unsuccessful in getting his boss to take any pills. In the end, he’d made Hotch stretch out on the longest banquette in the jet cabin and returned the meds to Rossi.

Dave slowed, pulling out his phone, he pressed the speed dial connecting him to Aaron.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Halfway down the stairs with Hotch’s clothes bundled beneath one arm, Haley heard the buzz of her husband’s phone.

Thankful that it was muffled by wadded fabric, she dug the device out of a sweatpants pocket. She stared at the caller ID displayed in prominent electric blue. With deft, purposeful speed, she silenced the ringtone. Slipping the phone into her own pocket, she continued down the stairs.

_Not this time, Dave. For the next week…more if I can manage it…he’s mine. **Not** yours. Mine._


	85. Gulled

With the focal point of all her worry and preparation finally home and stowed away in their nice, safe bed, Haley moved with purpose.

She retrieved Aaron’s go-bag from his car, sorting through it, adding to the sweats she already had consigned to the laundry. She raided the cupboard that contained what she thought of as the when-Aaron-first-gets-home soups, and started warming chicken broth. But most important of all, Haley slid her husband’s phone into the narrow space in the silverware drawer between the tray that organized their forks and spoons and knives, and the very back of the drawer itself.

No one ever looked there.

_And there’s no way they’ll let Aaron work right now, so there’s no reason for him to be disturbed by anything work-related._

She’d silenced the ringtone, but left the phone on, thinking the battery would run down, giving Aaron an added measure of distance from the BAU and its denizens.

Confident in the sanctity of her territory, Haley prepared a tray with the steaming broth and some bland crackers. She found she was looking forward to taking care of Aaron. It would be so satisfying to have him to herself without the constant threat of some sick, twisted criminal hovering in the wings, ready to draw her man away from her side and into any number of life-threatening situations.

Haley gave a happy, little sigh as, balancing the tray, she made her way upstairs.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi stared at his unanswered phone and held an internal debate.

_He’s probably in the shower or already asleep, which means he doesn’t need pills anyway._

Odds were Hotch would refuse his pain medication just as he had on the flight home. But there was a slim chance he wouldn’t. Paused at a stoplight, Dave growled in frustration. He wanted to get home, too. Mudgie and scotch were waiting. And after this case and its graphic afterimages seared into his brain, he needed to hug one and chug the other. Rossi wanted to have a long, therapeutic talk with his dog. It always helped smooth over the worst knots in a very tangled world.

The angry blare of a horn reminded him that the light had changed. Stepping on the accelerator and signaling, he pulled over to the curb to think for a moment.

Rossi was a superb problem solver most of the time. He’d found that there were always multiple solutions to any difficult situation. Most people grabbed at whichever was most obvious. But he’d found that taking a few minutes to sort through all the possibilities made the difference between a knee-jerk reaction and an elegant result.

He took a deep breath as he bent over his phone once more.

_J.J. was right. The kid needs to take his turn at breaking the ice with Hotch, and if anyone can educate that stubborn idiot about the scientific, medical benefits of easing one’s own pain…it’ll be Reid. And since we kept the nitty-gritty of the case from him, he won’t be able to spill anything by accident while he’s talking. And it’ll be useless if Hotch tries to pry details out of him; the data’s just not there._

“Reid. It’s Rossi. I know you’re tired, but there’s one last thing I’m gonna ask you to take care of before you turn in. I promise, in the end both you and Hotch’ll sleep better. Can we meet for a few minutes?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid stood on the darkened, residential street outside Hotch’s house and wondered how Rossi had managed to cajole him into doing this.

His shoulders slumped. _Because he’s right. He profiled me and knew I wouldn’t make a move on my own and I’d just lay low until both Hotch and I could pretend nothing ever happened. And Rossi has this **thing** about people who hide. At least…people he cares about._ A wry grin quirked one side of his mouth. _Maybe that’s **Rossi’s** pet idiosyncrasy. Bet he lost all the time at hide-and-seek when he was a kid._

It was late, but lights were on both upstairs and down in the tidy, picturesque, Hotchner house.

Reid looked down at the bottle of pills in his hand, giving them an experimental toss. For a moment he considered employing sleight-of-hand to deliver the medication to Hotch, but abandoned the idea almost as soon as it formed. This wasn’t a time for levity. It was a time for something quick and sincere.

_Like a Band-Aid. Rip it off fast. It’ll still hurt, but it’ll be over sooner rather than later._

Wishing he could ask Scotty to beam him up and escape the whole awkward situation, the nervous, young genius focused on his own feet, counting the steps up the walkway to the front door. Eyes still downcast, Reid rang the bell and waited.

When the door opened, he looked up at the puzzled expression on Haley’s face.

“Hi, Mrs. Hotchner. I’m sorry to bother you guys, but could I have a minute with Hotch? I mean…your husband?”

Her voice was soft, but edged with frost. “I know who you mean when you say ‘Hotch.’”

Reid blinked. There was no overt discourtesy, but neither did he think he’d be invited in. He glanced at the little, amber bottle. Holding it out by way of explanation, he tried again. “These were prescribed for Hotch in Grand Forks. Could I give them to him, please?”

Haley’s eyes dropped to the medication. She extended her hand. “I appreciate your bringing them over, but Aaron’s already in bed. I’ll make sure he knows you dropped by in the morning.”

There was no leeway, no wiggle room in her tone.

Reid let her pick the bottle out of his palm. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he frowned. “I was hoping I could talk to Hotch. There’s some stuff he needs to know…uh…empirical data on the effects of pain on recuperation time and on the human body in general. I thought I could…”

“I’m sorry, Agent.” Haley remained firmly planted in the doorway.

Reid winced a little at her refusal to use his name. Always and ever unsure of his welcome anyplace he went, it made him feel like a minor functionary instead of a vital cog in the well-oiled machine that Hotch always made him feel part of. There really wasn’t much he could do if the lady of the house didn’t want her husband disturbed.

Reid backed away a few steps. “Okay. I’m sorry, too. But…” He fixed Haley with amber eyes full of regret and concern. “…please, if Hotch is in pain and he doesn’t want to take anything for it? Please have him call me?”

Knowing she’d won the skirmish about access to Aaron, Haley could afford to be gracious. “It’s kind of you to worry. But please don’t. I’ll make sure he gets everything he needs. At the moment, that means peace and quiet and _undisturbed_ rest.” Nodding at the pills in one hand, she stepped backwards and placed the other on the door, beginning to push it closed. “Thank you again for coming by. Good night.”

Reid watched the door shut, hearing it latch with a definitive click, followed by the sound of locks being engaged. A signal that the Hotchner household was closed for the night. He shrugged and walked away.

Secretly, he was glad to put off the conversation with Hotch for just a little while longer. He still harbored hopes that, given enough time, he and the Unit Chief could pretend there’d never been any infringement on anyone’s personal life, and no discomfort between the team and their leader had ever existed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch found that letting his muscles relax eased a good deal of his pain, so he concentrated on releasing tension from his body. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do for a man whose normal state was as finely strung as piano wire. The layers of musculature surrounding the site of his surgery were in protection mode; locked down and doing their part to splint and hold steady their section of his anatomy.

What surprised him was that in addition to the wound and his jaw, his upper torso hurt, too.

He didn’t remember falling when Morgan shot him. The last image he had was of hurtling through the trees and sparse shrubbery, every fiber of his soul aimed at saving the little girls whose families were waiting, depending on him to do his job and bring them home.

The rest was blurry and dark; the first clear memory being the hospital.

Now he realized his momentum in that last, mad dash when Morgan’s bullet hit, lifting him off his feet and propelling him forward, must have thrown him to the ground with bruising force. His shoulders, chest and ribs objected to such rough handling.

Finally at home, able to let his guard down when it came to physical discomfort, Hotch groaned. He even allowed himself a very small whimper. Very small, and very private, he thought. Until he heard Haley’s tsk-tsk-ing at him as she crossed the room to his side.

“Oh, sweetheart…look at you!”

Hotch cracked his eyes open. Seeing tears trembling on his wife’s lashes, he tried to backpedal.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.” He realized lying on his back, displaying the mobility of an inverted turtle, wasn’t exactly reassuring. “I’m just tired, Haley. I’ll be fine.”

She took a seat on the edge of the mattress, gulping back the impulse to cry, choosing instead to let a brave, little smile supplant and shimmer through the tears. “You _will_ be fine, Aaron. I promise. You _will_. I’ll make sure of it.” She stroked his hair, letting her hand drift down one side of his face, her palm lingering against his cheek.

“You just need to relax and let me take care of everything.” Her hand traveled down his neck, along one collarbone, coming to rest in the center of his chest. With the lightest of touches, she traced spirals over his breastbone.

Hotch’s breathing evened out. His muscles finally released.

For a moment, he thought he heard the night nurse from the hospital in Grand Forks, humming something soft and soothing, dancing on the edge of memory.

But then his eyes drifted shut, and it was just a dream.


	86. Airtight Aerie

“Sorry, Rossi. I tried. Didn’t get in the door, but Hotch’s got the pills, so that’s good. I guess.”

Reid’s cavernous yawn prevented him from hearing his colleague’s response. “Huh? Didn’t catch that. Come again?”

“You didn’ get in the door? Wha’s _that_ s’pposed to mean?” Rossi’s voice sounded thick. Having turned pill delivery responsibilities over to Reid, he’d made good on his promise to himself to go home and indulge in the twin comforts of dog and bottle. Reclining in his favorite chair with Mudgie in attendance, Rossi felt a frisson of resentment at being disturbed. He planned on ridding his brain of the last case’s after-burn by thoroughly sousing it in lots of smooth, pricey alcohol. Or at least dulling the images enough to move past them. And Reid’s call had interrupted a conversation with Mudge that had been both philosophical and practical, plumbing the depths and intricacies of life’s riddles. They were very close to solving several.

Now Rossi had to pull himself back from his own version of therapy in order to deal with the method he’d foisted on his team’s leader and their youngest agent. Concerned about Reid’s treatment, he roused himself from incipient stupor and tried to focus.

“Hotch didn’ wanna see you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. I don’t think he even knew I was there.”

Rossi put down the drink and assumed a more erect, more alert posture. “But you left his meds?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe you better start from the beginning, Reid.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I went to his door. Mrs. Hotchner answered. She said Hotch was already in bed and she’d tell him I came by. She took the pills. I asked her to have Hotch call me, though. I mean, _if_ he wants to.”

Rossi gave a deep sigh, expressive of weariness. “That all sounds like Haley. If Hotch had been the one to open the door, you’d probably still be there bending his ear about…whatever.”

“Maybe. But it’s all good. She’s got his painkillers.” _And as awkward as it was, I didn’t have to confront Hotch._ “So…I’m headed home. See you Monday. Sooner, if a case comes in.”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Reid.” Rossi sounded preoccupied. “And thanks.”

He closed the connection and transferred his attention to Mudgie.

“Wha’d’ya think, Mudge? Should we check up on our boss tomorrow?”

The dog tilted his head to one side, eyes fixed on the crackers and brie stacked on a plate at his master’s elbow. Rossi chose to take the gesture as canine affirmation.

“Yeah. I think so, too, boy. But tomorrow.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Tonight is for indulgence and a distinct _lack_ of remembrance.” He picked up one of the snacks and tossed it at his companion. It was snapped out of mid-air.

Rossi appreciated how Mudgie could always make his tosses look like holes-in-one.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The last thing Hotch recalled before closing his eyes, was the first thing he saw upon opening them.

Haley was leaning over him, her faint smile prompting an answering one from him, until it stretched too far and reminded Hotch of his jaw’s recent meeting with an angry father’s fist.

“Morning.” He basked in the fond look beaming down at him from his wife’s eyes.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?” She stroked his hair, toying with a few, stray cowlicks. For all Hotch knew she might have been sitting beside him, keeping watch all night. He felt grateful for such care.

“I’m okay. A little stiff.” He blinked, a foggy recollection working its way to the fore. “Did someone come by last night? Late?”

“Mmmm…not really.” It was noncommittal, but Haley’s shrug and the slight shake of her head communicated that if there _had_ been a visitor, it hadn’t been important. Hotch would have let it go, but he chose that moment to turn his head, bringing the top of the nightstand into his field of vision.

The small, amber pill bottle sat next to a glass of water. He frowned, piecing together the sequence of events from the previous day, knowing fatigue and pain might have affected his memory. But he could have sworn…

“Haley, did Dave come by last night?”

“No.” She continued to play with his hair. “How about some breakfast, sweetheart? You know, you really should eat if you want to heal faster. Although…” She let her smile turn a tiny bit wicked. “…I wouldn’t mind if you were a nice, long time about it, so I could do this _every_ morning.”

Hotch glanced at her, but his attention was still on the pills he was positive he hadn’t accepted. “You sure? Dave didn’t bring those pills by?”

“No. He didn’t.” Tilting her head to one side, Haley narrowed her eyes. “I bet you could handle some oatmeal and orange juice…How about that? Sound good?”

The mention of the breakfast combination that he’d had every morning of his childhood…at least every morning that he’d been _able_ to eat…those days when his father hadn’t beaten him or been lying in wait for him…went through Hotch like a shock wave. The pill bottle fled from his mind, replaced by dread and questions.

 _Does she know oatmeal and orange juice was breakfast when I was growing up?_ _Mostly ‘cause I could make it myself? My God, if she knows even **that** …she could know everything! Who told her?..._ Hotch stared at his wife, eyes showing a little too much white around the edges.

“Aaron? Honey? What’s wrong?” Haley felt a sudden lump of sympathetic anxiety in her stomach. _I never know what’s going to upset him! What is it this time?!_ “Please tell me what’s wrong!”

Hotch shook his head; more a gesture to clear it than to deny anything. “Wh…why did you…why oatmeal? Why?”

 “Well, I thought it would be easy to digest and it’s sort of a comfort food.” She watched his Adam’s apple bob, but didn’t think he was swallowing because his mouth was watering at the suggestion of warm cereal. It was more like a response to alarm. Maybe even outright fear. “I could make you eggs instead,” Haley offered, voice small with uncertainty. “How about some scrambled eggs?”

_Eggs. Oatmeal or eggs. God, I’m starting to hate breakfast._

One night’s rest wasn’t enough. Hotch was too weak. He felt the weight of every ugly secret, every private loose end, every hidden fear that had drilled its way into his heart for decades. He was overwhelmed. And it was at such times that he most wanted to hide. He needed to be alone until he could re-establish his footing. Otherwise, he might slip and fall. And the whole world would see it. He already felt invaded. He couldn’t handle any more.

Yet he was also a gentleman born and bred, with the courtly grace that attended a privileged, Southern upbringing. With manners as ingrained as the rest of his damage, Hotch reached up and caressed his wife’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m not hungry yet. Maybe later. I apologize for being so much trouble.” Sad, soulful eyes begged for understanding. “I think I just need to rest a little more. You don’t have to stay with me.”

Haley sighed. Leaning over, she placed a gentle kiss on Aaron’s forehead. Then the tip of his nose. Then his lips. It wasn’t an invitation; she knew he wasn’t capable yet. It was more a marking of property. But Haley thought of it as a promise.

_I’ll be everything that you need, my beautiful husband. I’ll teach you what you want and then I’ll give it to you. You deserve so much more than pain. You just don’t know how to stop hurting. But I can show you. I’ll teach you what it takes to be happy._

“Alright.” She gave one more territorial peck to his lips. “I’ll let you go back to sleep, but I’m right downstairs if you need anything. And I’ll be back to check on you.” She leaned in and buried her nose in his thick, unruly hair, inhaling the warm, male scent of him. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

In search of a hiding place, Hotch closed his eyes.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi groaned.

Rolling over, he wondered if maybe a brain the caliber of Spencer Reid’s could create some liquid, chemical compound that would give the delights of fine scotch in large doses, without the consequences. _I’ll have to set him loose on that next time we go wheels up._

Cracking one lid open, Rossi found himself looking into two large, very close, canine eyes. He sighed and began the laborious process of untangling himself from Egyptian cotton sheets. “Patience, Mudge,” he muttered. “And I’m hitting the latrine before you get to.”

Twenty minutes later, both dog and man had relieved themselves. Mudgie was jowls-deep in a bowl of kibble. Rossi was similarly entrenched in a mug of coffee. In spite of a slight headache, he was giving some serious thought to what he privately termed The Hotchner Situation.

It didn’t sit well with him that Haley had turned Reid away at the door, even if Hotch had already retired for the night. Having shared enough accommodations with the Unit Chief in the field, Rossi was sure that, even if the man had been in bed, he probably wasn’t asleep. He also thought it would have been mutually beneficial for Hotch and Reid to talk. **_Extremely_** _beneficial._

What bothered him most was the niggling suspicion that Haley was going to use Hotch’s recuperation as an excuse to keep the team away. _And we’re his friends, not just his co-workers. It’s not right to separate a man from his support network when he needs it most._ Rossi shook his head, watching Mudgie slurp up the last beef-flavored nugget from his bowl.

“That woman is either really insecure in her marriage, or she just doesn’t like us, boy.” After a little more thought, he was willing to give Hotch’s wife the benefit of the doubt. Maybe someone showing up on her doorstep, unannounced, was unacceptable.

 _Maybe it’s a Southern thing,_ the native New Yorker mused. _Maybe if I call ahead, it’ll make all the difference._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Good morning, Haley. It’s Dave. How are the Hotchners this fine morning?”

“Oh. Morning, Dave. We’re fine.” She glanced toward the stairs, hoping Aaron hadn’t been disturbed by the ringing of their landline. “Uh…Aaron’s still asleep, but if you want to leave a message, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

A few miles away Rossi took a deep breath and decided to close off all the woman’s escape routes while remaining cordial. He’d deemed such tactics necessary when he’d failed to reach Hotch on his cell phone.

“I’m not surprised. He’s had a rough time. I’m glad he’s taking it easy. However…there are some things he needs to deal with before the Bureau approves any time off.” _There. Threatening their time together should get her to listen._

Haley blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Bureaucratic red tape; that’s all. How about I drop by in a couple of hours, once I round up all the paperwork?”

“Are you sure it’s necessary, Dave? He really is tired and I’d like him to relax…you know…instead of being reminded about work. Or having work come to him…” Her response oozed reluctance.

“Well…” Rossi tried to sound as though he were giving serious consideration to the situation. He expelled an audible sigh. “I’ll be straight with you, Haley. The only way they’ll approve down time for Aaron is if he either comes in and submits to an examination by a Bureau doc, or if the hospital that already treated him in Grand Forks forwards his records to Quantico.”

“So have them do _that_.”

“He’ll need to sign release forms before they’ll agree to fax his records over.” Rossi tried to keep his grin out of his voice. “Rules are rules, you know.”

“Can’t they messenger whatever Aaron needs to sign over?”

“It’s the weekend. It’d be a lot faster and easier if I bring them by. I’ll get his signature and take care of everything from my end.”

“W-e-l-l…”

“Or…I could come by and between us we could get Aaron in to the doctor. Like I said, it’s the weekend, so we’ll have to call someone to come in; someone qualified to look him over. Could take all day. I’ll do whatever you think is best. Your choice.”

But it really wasn’t.

“Okay. Fine. I don’t want him going in. So…I guess I’ll see you in a little while then. With whatever needs to be signed.”

 “Wise decision. See you soon.” Rossi hung up, grin fading. _Guess I better come up with something official-looking for Hotch to sign._

An hour later, having cobbled together some fairly reputable documents from various word processing templates, Rossi was on his way; determined to storm the ramparts of Fort Haley and succeed where Reid had failed, making it all the way through the door and up the stairs to Hotch.


	87. Cracking Under Pressure

Rossi was feeling smug. Self-satisfied. Self-congratulatory. Selfie-worthy.

The previous night’s scotch and brie hadn’t dulled his mind enough to affect his native cunning. Now, parked in the Hotchner’s driveway, he cast one more indulgent glance at the ‘release form’ he’d prepared as the price of admission into Hotch’s presence.

It contained some convincing terminology and legalese, but the _coup de grace_ , the bit for which Rossi patted himself on the back, considering it a stroke of sly genius, was the additional clause he had crafted which mentioned that, although Agent Hotchner’s medical needs had been fulfilled, his psychological evaluation still needed to be addressed. And it made mention of the ‘standard time frame for assessment’ being met within one week of the incidence of trauma.

Rossi wasn’t positive such subterfuge was necessary to ensure access to Aaron, but it dovetailed nicely with his plan to find his friend an outsider to talk to in lieu of a Bureau therapist.

He was quite proud of his morning’s work so far; confident he could slip the forms past Haley. The potential stumbling block would be Hotch, but Dave thought he could  rely on a combination of trust, pain, and wooziness to edge past the Unit Chief, if necessary. On the other hand, if Hotch was bored and straining at the leash for something to occupy him, his ears would perk up immediately, sensing something out of kilter.

Rossi grinned. _More like sensing the entire world out of whack. Since when do release forms contain information **from** the patient’s records, or recommendations for further treatment!?_ But he’d felt the customized clause about psychology would help him when it came to prying Hotch away from his wife so he could visit with a therapist.

The grin faded. All the slightly cruel fun of subterfuge aside, Dave was very serious indeed about finding his best friend some professional help. _Professional **and** discreet, of course._

He perused the forms one last time, wondering if Haley would even bother to read them that closely.

Rossi shrugged. He didn’t really care either way. Once he touched bases with Hotch, there wasn’t much Haley could do. And although he’d enjoy trying to pass these off and prank the Unit Chief, that wasn’t  his primary objective.

_But remember two things, you old meddler: there might be nothing going on here except a wife worried about her husband, and if you **do** ruffle her feathers too much, she might take it out on him._

Rossi had to admit, he didn’t know what ammunition was in Haley’s arsenal, but based on his own matrimonial experience it could be anything from tears to whining to nagging to silence to denial of sexual favors. Although, considering Mrs. Hotchner’s efforts in the baby-making department, he doubted she’d resort to the last tactic.

 _And I’m doing her a disservice with all this supposition. If my spouse came home sporting a bullet hole, I’d probably go into protective overdrive, too._ He frowned. _Although that doesn’t excuse terrorizing poor Reid. And with someone as socially awkward and vulnerable as our young doctor, it’s way too easy to do._

With that thought, Rossi picked up the forms and headed for the Hotchner’s front door.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Dave. Hi.” Haley’s eyes went straight to the sheaf of papers clutched in the agent’s hand. She extended her own. “I’ll take them up and see if Aaron’s awake.”

“I should go with them in case he has any questions, don’t you think?” Rossi sounded smooth; only interested in efficiency, not in any kind of power play for property rights to the man of the house.

“I don’t even know if he’s awake. If he is and he wants to ask you anything, I’ll come get you.” Haley’s voice was firm. She’d had time to think since Rossi’s call. She’d rehearsed a number of scenarios and was determined to stand her ground.

Dave did his best not to smile. He passed Haley the forms and watched her head toward the stairs. Of _course_ Hotch would have questions. If he was alert, he’d recognize this was a scam. If he was groggy, he’d still balk at signing his name without more to go on. No ex-attorney would hand out signatures without questioning the messenger.

He gave his smile free rein, letting it beam through three minutes later when Haley came to the second floor landing. Looking down with a decidedly sour expression, she motioned Rossi closer.

“He says he wants to see you.”

Rossi ascended the steps with what he hoped Haley would consider proper decorum. He could afford to be respectful, even a little subservient. After all, he’d just won the prize: time with Hotch.

 Halfway up, he gave his hostess his most charming, disarming smile. “I hate to be a bother, but would it be too much trouble to ask for a cup of coffee?” He ducked his head in an ingratiating manner. “I usually only get the Bureau stuff, which is more like diesel fuel, and whenever I’ve had yours, it…well…” He gave an appreciative sigh. “Would it be too much trouble?” Rossi’s experience with undercover work made him a creditable actor. He reminded himself never to mention the expensive brewing equipment and gourmet beans he had at home.

Haley’s lips thinned, but she couldn’t refuse such a gracious request. With a small, aggravated puff of breath and a resigned glance toward their bedroom door, she nodded. “Of course. But, Dave, please, don’t wear him out.” With reluctance obvious in every step, Hotch’s wife descended the stairs, leaving her husband to fend for himself.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Dave! What the hell is this?”

“Good morning to you, too, Aaron. So nice to see you.” Rossi’s smug tone left no doubt in Hotch’s mind that he was on the receiving end of a Machiavellian plot.

“Seriously, what did you do? Have some third-grader do his desktop publishing homework for you?”

Dave chuckled outright as he took a seat on the edge of the mattress. “I just wanted to be sure I could get past the guard at the gate and see you. No harm done, right?”

“Guard at the…?” Hotch dropped the papers he’d been scowling at to the bedspread. Using the heels of both hands, he scrubbed at his eyes. “Dave, I’m not feeling so hot right now. D’ya think we could save the practical jokes for later? Like when I _don’t_ have a bullet hole in my side?”

Rossi’s smirk morphed into a warm, slightly sad smile. When he spoke, affection seeped into the words. “I’m sorry. But after Reid got turned away, I thought I’d approach the castle with a guaranteed writ of passage.”

Hotch peered at his friend from between his palms. “What the hell are you talking about? _and_ …what the hell _are_ these?” He retrieved the forms from where they’d drifted onto his lap.

Rossi’s smile faded as he studied the younger man. “You don’t know that Reid dropped by last night?...” His eyes tracked to the lone pill bottle standing sentinel on the nightstand. “…Who do you think brought you _those_?”

Hotch stared. He’d been curious, but Haley’s mention of his childhood breakfast had opened the snake pit of his past, pushing any questions about the medicine completely out of his mind. Now he blinked at the bottle, trying to recall his wife’s exact words. Frustrated, after a few minutes Hotch had to admit he was in worse shape than he thought.

Thing is, it wasn’t his body’s well-being that concerned him. Scared him, even.

It wasn’t a simple matter of being injured and a little under the weather; in need of rest and time to physically heal. It was something tied to the emotional storms that had made far too frequent appearances during the last few months. Just thinking about them made him dread the start of another; like a tiny vortex inside him that was spinning, eager for the chance to attain full tornado-hood. He could feel the molten speck of its center anxious to grow and consume him once again.

“Hotch?...Aaron…?” Rossi pressed a palm against the front of one of Hotch’s shoulders, giving a gentle shove to bring the man back from wherever he’d gone. “Aaron, look at me.”

Hotch’s eyes connected, fully aware. But something in their depths stopped Dave’s breath.

 _He looks…what?...terrified?_ “Aaron, what’s going on with you?”

All Hotch could do was shake his head.

“He needs rest. That’s what’s ‘going on’ with him.” Haley’s voice from the doorway stopped any answer her husband might have given.

Rossi watched the bleakness ebb from Hotch’s eyes; saw it pushed down and away so that the man could present a façade to his wife that wouldn’t alarm her. _But might destroy **him**._ _He’s **got** to address whatever’s happening to him emotionally._ He turned to see Haley holding the steaming cup of coffee he’d requested.

“Dave, he’s tired. Can’t he have even one day off without being reminded of work?” Her voice was sweet, filled with concern. But there was a flinty quality to it that told Rossi his time was up.

“Haley, did Spencer Reid come by here last night to see me?” Hotch surprised Rossi by not only asking, but by the slight edge to his words.

“Yes, but you were in bed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hotch studied his wife’s downcast expression. “Did you send him away because you think I need to escape work? Is that it?”

Haley’s nod was uncertain. She wasn’t sure what to say or how much. She hated the judgment she thought she saw in both men’s eyes.

Hotch took a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky shudder. “Honey, I can’t just turn myself off when it comes to my job.”

“You’ve never _tried_ , sweetheart.”

Rossi was feeling uncomfortable. This sounded like a discussion best continued in private. It was married couple territory. He stood, unhappy that he hadn’t had more time alone with Hotch, but thinking that if he didn’t leave now, it might engender resentment. Worse, if his presence acted as a goad, it might contribute to another meltdown for Hotch. He gathered up the papers he’d brought, feeling he should continue his subterfuge; see it through to its logical end.

“I think I better be going.” He glanced at Haley. “Thanks for the coffee, but I guess it’s the diesel fuel at the office for me after all when I drop these off.” He motioned with the fake forms, then turned back toward Hotch. “I’ll call you later. Oh…yeah…that reminds me…you might wanna recharge your phone, Aaron. I couldn’t get through to you this morning.” Rossi’s voice trailed off as, frowning, Hotch craned his neck around, scanning every surface in the room.

“Haley, where’s my phone?”

“I took it, Aaron. And I’m not giving it back until you’re better.”

Rossi sighed. The line was crossed. It was too late to leave. He’d heard too much to avoid involvement. The best he could hope for now was to act as a mediator, if necessary. _Or pretend I’m invisible._

But he had a disturbing feeling that he wouldn’t be able to keep from taking sides. _Oh, well. At least it’ll be an education to see how the Hotchners argue. I bet it’s nothing like the battles I and any of my wives had._

He couldn’t imagine Haley and Aaron engaged in a passionate exchange replete with elaborate hand gestures and Italian expletives. _But I guess anything’s possible…_

Rossi sank back down to the mattress and braced himself for whatever storm was about to break.


	88. Accidental Stool Pigeon

It wasn’t what Rossi had expected.

Coming from a background of marital battles as hot, as steamy, as fierce, as _cleansing_ as tropical storms, the way the Hotchners dealt with each other made Rossi feel he was observing a different species altogether. Their encounter was a tepid opposite of his own experience. It didn’t have the killing force of an arctic blizzard. Rather, it was a toned down version of chill. It brought to mind restive, little snowflakes drifting in quiet patterns of submerged anger; stinging when they hit unprotected skin.

“Haley, I’ve asked you before to show my co-workers respect. They deserve it. They’ve earned it. Even if for some reason you _don’t_ respect them, then please have enough for _me_ to honor that request.”

“Aaron, I haven’t _dis_ respected anyone. But you can’t ask me to stand by when you’re hurt and do _nothing_.”

Rossi watched as more and more color drained from Hotch’s complexion. He listened as the man’s voice grew lower and quieter; the enunciation more precise and crisp.

“I understand that. But keeping me in quarantine when it comes to my job is _not_ ‘nothing.’”

“It’s the _job_ that hurt you, Aaron! How can you not see that? It’s the _job_ that let some crazy murderer put a bullet in you!”

Rossi would always attribute what happened next to Hotch’s weakened condition. His physical and emotional states were debilitated to begin with. Add in the stress of an argument and…well....

“Derek Morgan is _not_ a murderer! It was an accident. Is that what this is about? Is that why you want to keep them away from me?”

Too late Hotch realized what he’d said. Unfortunately, Haley didn’t miss a thing. There was nothing lacking in _her_ cognitive processes; no injury or fatigue or stress affecting _her_ grasp of the conversation and its implications.

She gaped, her color paling to a shade almost as waxen as Hotch’s. “You…he…” She swallowed, recovering, her eyes blazing sudden outrage. “Aaron. You were shot by… _Morgan_ shot you?!?”

Rossi could see the toll this was taking on Hotch. He could feel the man’s trembling conducted through the mattress; could see the rapid pulse in his throat, the increased respiration. The older man couldn’t sit by in silence any more.

“Haley, Derek Morgan saved Aaron’s life out there. He was running toward a cabin we’d been told was rigged to blow sky high. It was the only way to stop your husband from reaching it.”

Haley stared at the two men before her, head moving from side to side in small, disbelieving arcs; eyes filled with tears and horror.

Hotch looked as though he was going to be sick. The shock of betraying his teammate, of divulging something he’d never intended to mention to his wife was written across his features. Shaking and white-faced, his eyes were fixed on nothing, seeing only the enormity and the consequences of what he’d just revealed.

Rossi didn’t know which was more difficult to watch. He rose and went to where Haley still stood in the doorway. The pleading quality in his voice broke through the emotions rocking her.

“Haley, if you really care about Aaron’s health, you’ll stop _now_. Do you understand? Continue this at another time. But for God’s sake…Stop. Now.”

Tears spilled over. She bit her lips to a painful line. But she nodded. Breaking away from staring at her husband, Haley pressed the cup of coffee into Rossi’s hands, turned, and fled.

In seconds, the slamming of the bathroom door cut off the sound of her sobbing.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi returned to where Hotch lay, breathing in ragged bursts.

He looked at the cup he was gripping as though seeing it for the first time. For lack of anything better to do, he offered it to Hotch. But the Unit Chief’s mind was elsewhere; vision turned inward. Rossi nudged the heated mug against his friend’s chest in a bid to reclaim his attention.

“Aaron, take this.”

It wasn’t Dave’s words. It wasn’t the aroma. It was the warmth hitting that precise point over his breastbone that jarred Hotch’s awareness, bringing him back, relaxing him just enough to rescue him from the edge of panic.

Wrapping wooden fingers around the cup, he turned eyes dark with fear on his friend.

“Dave, what did I just do?!?”

With a long-suffering sigh, Rossi shrugged. “Nothing that wouldn’t have happened eventually, I’m guessing.” Giving the younger man a grim smile, he tried to put a positive spin on things. “Doesn’t seem any of us do too well at keeping secrets lately. Probably better she found out about it sooner rather than later. At least it’s out in the open and can be dealt with, right?”

The look of utter incomprehension on Hotch’s face made Dave falter. “It’s not the end of the world, Aaron.”

“What?”

Rossi frowned. “Letting slip that friendly fire brought you down. It’s not…” His words faded under the intensity of Hotch’s stare.

Gaze going internal again, Aaron shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

“What then?”

“I…” He swallowed, still shaking his head. “I don’t know…Something’s wrong…” He looked directly into Rossi’s eyes. “Help me.”

A cold and feral feeling stirred deep in Rossi’s gut, like a warning. He’d seen Hotch command others to do his bidding in the field. He’d seen him ask for help. But something about those two, simple words and the wide, tragic eyes behind them felt…different. It wasn’t a plea so much as… _He’s begging. Good God, I’ve never seen Aaron beg before._

Thrown, Rossi leaned in and embraced his friend. Glad to escape the look on his face. Glad to conceal his own. “Okay. Okay. I will. I’ll help you. I promise.”

_And where the hell is your wife?! She wants to take care of you so much…then why isn’t she here holding you?_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley sat on the edge of the tub with a towel pressed against her mouth, muffling her sobs.

As far as she was concerned, the world had gone mad. Or maybe just the BAU. _Now they’re **shooting** him? And that’s a **good** thing?!?_

She doubled over, burying her face in the soft, terrycloth folds. _This has gone beyond any acceptable limit! They expect me to stand by and…and… **applaud**?!...while they kill my husband? No! This can’t be right! The people I’ve been thinking were protecting him…that I’ve been asking for help…they’ve…they’ve…Oh…God!!_

For a time she couldn’t hear her own thoughts through the shocked horror of her weeping. But Mrs. Brooks’ little girl wasn’t made of tears. Deep inside her core, where her strength and determination originated, the tigress raised her head, and flexed her claws.

Haley choked back her tears, feeling them replaced by an icy savagery. Her mate had been attacked.

And she knew who had pulled the trigger.

She stood. With slow deliberation, she dropped the damp towel in the hamper and took a position in front of the mirror. Her lip curled in what might have been a snarl were she a different species.

_This will **not** be swept under the carpet. There **will** be an accounting. If not officially, then one of my own devising._

When the soft tapping came at the bathroom door, she turned her head toward the intrusive sound and spoke with perfect, venomous calm. “Yes?”

Rossi’s voice from the other side was the one he used for professional situations like hostage negotiations, or talking people down from ledges; eminently reasonable and steady. “Haley, I know this is a shock for you. And I’m sure this isn’t the way Aaron wanted you to find out, but...”

“But I _did_ find out, Dave. I found out that my husband is being used for target practice.” A silky, dangerous note entered her tone. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Aaron has made it very clear that you…his _team_ …are the most important aspect of his life. So I guess since he’s giving his life to the Bureau in one respect, he might as well give it literally.” Rossi heard a very ladylike snort through the door. “Aaron never was one to do things halfway.”

Sighing, Dave rested his forehead against the impervious wooden paneling. He wanted to try the doorknob, but knew he shouldn’t. If he could get Haley to open the door and step out herself, he would have won a small, but not inconsequential victory.

“Haley, you married a very special man. Yes, he _does_ put his life on the line. We all do. But you don’t know what really happened out there.” He exhaled a frustrated puff of breath. “Even Aaron doesn’t have a clear recollection of what happened. He had to be told. He listened and he applied his empathy and trust for his colleagues. If you want to be fair, you have to do the same thing. You can’t pass judgment based on something blurted out by a tired, hurt man.”

Silence. Rossi decided to take it as a hopeful sign; that Haley was considering his argument, possibly finding it worthy. He strove for his most persuasive tone.

“Aaron needs help right now. I know you’re upset, but, Haley, something’s happening to him that I can’t put a name to. At least not yet.” He closed his eyes, willing the woman on the other side of the door to be as strong as Hotch always said she was. “You say he won’t let you into certain corners of his life. Well…I think those corners are wide open now. Go to him. Now’s your chance. He needs you.”

Rossi listened to the sound of his own breathing. No response. He pulled back from the door, defeated.

Turning to leave, he heard a click. A creak. A door opening. When he looked back, it was clear Haley’d been crying, but it was like seeing a tower of steel shining through mist. She looked every inch as indomitable as Hotch had led him to believe. Yet when she spoke, all Rossi heard was deep betrayal and sorrow.

“Dave, he shuts me out where he lets you in. What you see as dark corners opening will be doors slamming in my face.” Her whisper was filled with shame. “I can’t even get him to eat. You take him for ice cream. If I brought him every flavor in the world, he still wouldn’t be able to eat.” Her voice cracked. “He’s mine…and it’s not fair… _not fair_ …”

The incomprehension on Haley’s face when Rossi started to chuckle was the soul of pathos. When he couldn’t stop, outrage began to take its place. Bringing both hands up to his chin in a prayerful attitude, Rossi mastered his laughter.

“Oh, Haley.” His smile was unstoppable. “I don’t think Aaron’s an open book to either one of us. I _just_ found out why he can’t eat when he comes home from a case. And, yes…it _is_ all your fault.”

Hotch’s wife raised her chin; an attempt to look as though these words didn’t hurt. But the new tears shimmering in her eyes were a dead giveaway. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She would _not_ give this man who could claim a closeness to her husband that pierced her with envy, the satisfaction.

“Haley, he never stopped falling in love with you. He never reached that plateau where the rest of us find a comfortable way to coexist. Inside, Aaron’s still that kid who can’t believe the girl he wants more than anything, wants him right back. That’s why his appetite disappears. It’s a casualty of love.” Rossi shook his head, letting one more chuckle escape. “I don’t think it’s something he likes to admit. Then again, I bet you’ve never asked him outright, have you…?”

Sniffling, Haley stared, searching Rossi’s eyes and facial features for affirmation.

When she brushed past him, hurrying to the bedroom and the man who shared it with her, Dave felt his first real hope for the Hotchners. Walking quietly past the open door, he continued down the stairs and let himself out.

Standing on the sidewalk, he took a deep, relaxing breath. _I’ll call Hotch later. See how things went._

It wasn’t until he was halfway home that he remembered…Haley had taken Hotch’s phone. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d give it back, no matter how touched she might be by the digestive evidence of her husband’s continuing adoration.


	89. When Owls Confer

Benjamin Rasmussen made his living walking the shady path between secrets and revelations.

His forty year career with the Boston Police Department had rendered him jaded as well as fulfilled. As Ben, ‘Razz’ to his friends, sat at his favorite table in his favorite coffee shop in his favorite city, he mused that he, like so many of his colleagues, was a product of his experiences more than of his genetic makeup.

The more he plumbed the depths of officers’ psyches, the less remarkable Ben thought people were. _Every quirk, every idiosyncrasy, every vain moment when you think you’re special and unique… all can be dissected, revealing the bare bones of a totally **un** remarkable occurrence in your background. Granted, it could be a vile, ugly occurrence…but not all that unremarkable. It’s the **combinations** of quirks, the aggregate of damage… **that’s** where people become individual…unique…_

Ben stared at the rain-drenched street, sipped his coffee and considered the officer he’d just left.

Adam Selkirk, a veteran of the BPD. Reliable, decorated for valor, trusted. A totally stand-up guy. Then, two months ago, this scion of the force had pulled in on himself; curled into a little ball and wept in terror. The really bad part was that it happened during an unexpectedly major drug bust, leaving Adam’s partner pretty much on his own until he could call in backup.

The trigger? An explosion at close range. Close enough to knock the officer to the ground. Close enough to set his ears to ringing and his skin to stinging from a multitude of minor shrapnel-inflicted pricks and scratches. Close enough to access some primal part of him that squeaked ‘Screw my duty to serve and protect…I’m outta here!’

Adam’s way out was to imitate an armadillo, rolling into a fetal position and ignoring the rest of the world for approximately an hour.

It had taken time and effort, but Ben dug deep and refused to give up. Adam, on the other hand, almost _had_ called it quits. Embarrassed, ashamed, mortified. He’d been ready to trash his exemplary career thanks to one uncontrollable reaction.

Until Ben dug through the man’s detritus and helped him understand.

Once upon a time, Adam’s older brothers thought it would be a fine practical joke to toss a string of lit firecrackers under a baby’s crib during his naptime. Even though his parents came running, there wasn’t anything they could do to stop the explosions once they’d begun without risking their own hands and fingers. They had managed to rescue little Adam from atop his mattress, but he’d been traumatized. He’d rolled into a self-preserving ball at the start. He stayed that way for hours despite calm reassurances, and snuggling from his mother and father. The baby hadn’t even cried; he was that petrified.

The incident had taken place on the fringe of memory. Adam forgot it ever happened.

Now Ben shook his head and smiled. Everyone thought the officer was some kind of oddball who’d flown under the radar, escaping notice. But he wasn’t. His reaction had been understandable and, once identified, could be addressed. Even if recognizing the cause didn’t erase what had happened, it did help Adam accept himself and cut himself a little slack. It saved his career and, more important, salvaged his self-respect and dignity.

Ben gazed at the wet, pearl-grey, city street with a satisfied air. These were the days the therapist liked most; when he could reclaim something from the damage. But it also reinforced his belief that people could be defined, quantified and predicted. You just had to dig deep enough.

_We are not the marvelously inexplicable individuals we’d like to think. We **can** be explained._

When his phone burred at him, he grinned at the caller ID. _David Rossi. Perfect timing._

Ben was in the mood for philosophical debate on the nature of Man, feeling he’d just proved his own point in the person of Officer Adam Selkirk. It would be fun to take on one of his most respected and most argumentative acquaintances who just happened to be a profiler for the FBI, as well as a prolific author.

“Hey, Dave. Write anything worth reading yet?”

“Yeah. Your obit. But I ran out of synonyms for ‘blowhard.’ Got any for me? I figured you outta be an expert.”

“You bet I gotta few words for you…”

Both men erupted into laughter. The casual eavesdropper who thought these were enemies engaged in baiting and taunting would be wrong. Behind the posturing, the two were linked by a fascination with the human animal and an unflagging desire to be ‘good guys.’ One hoped to leave his imprint by weeding the bad seeds out of the general public; the other devoted himself to interpreting the minds of such erstwhile do-gooders who picked up damage along the way.

“How’re you doing these days, Razz?”

“Can’t complain. Well…I _could_ , but it wouldn’t make any difference. How ‘bout you?”

“Same. Always want things to be better, but damn glad they’re not worse.”

Something in Rossi’s voice clued Ben in that this wasn’t a purely social call. “Hey…you need help with something? Or…some _one_?”

A beat of silence preceded Rossi’s reply. “I wouldn’t say ‘no,’ if you were to offer.”

Ben’s senses sharpened. He loved puzzles of the human variety and if David Rossi was tendering one for examination, it had to be one helluva, convoluted, tangled specimen. “What’d he do? I’m assuming it _is_ a ‘he.’”

“Not one of the baddies this time, Razz. It’s one of us.”

“Damn.” The BPD therapist sighed. He saw the downside law enforcement inflicted on its champions every day. He’d been hoping Rossi would present him with one of his unsubs. _Still, if Dave wants me to poke around in the guy’s psyche, he must be more than a little messed up._ “Okay. Tell me more. Who is he and what happened to him?”

“You already know him…in a way.”

Ben heard reluctance in his friend’s voice. He began to be intrigued. “‘In a way?’ How? What way?”

Rossi sighed, his next words would bring back memories and warnings. “A long time ago. You were on the board that looked into his background when I proposed him as a candidate for the BAU.”

“That dark-haired kid? The one with the eyes?”

Dave chuckled. “Hey. They _all_ had eyes.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah…” It came out on a long, weary sigh. “…I know what you mean.”

Ben stretched his legs out beneath the table at which he sat, crossing them at the ankles, letting his mind roam back through time. “I warned you about that kid.”

“He’s not a kid anymore. And you were wrong. He did great.” Rossi took a breath, trying to still the rapid tempo of his heart. “He climbed the ranks on sheer hard work and merit. He’s the Unit Chief of the BAU now. Razz, he’s my boss…. And my friend.”

“I never said he wouldn’t do well, Dave. As I recall, I said the toll it would take on him would be the problem. I said it would be inhumane…unusually cruel…to subject that boy to the pressures of a BAU career.”

“I still disagree. Pressure crushes, but it also creates diamonds.”

A moment of contemplative silence followed Rossi’s statement. When Ben responded, he chose his words with care. “Dave, I can tell this guy is something special to you personally. Is that why you’re calling me in? Are you too close to him to help him? I mean, c’mon, you analyze twisted minds for a living. Why d’you need me?”

Rossi’s weary, mirthless half-laugh told Ben volumes. “He’s not twisted. Not really. He’s hurt. And he’s scared.”

“A-n-d…?” The therapist prompted.

“And I have my suspicions. There might be things he needs to tell someone that he’d rather not tell people he works with…sees almost every day.”

“I see.” Ben’s voice went low with sympathy. “And he’s got to the point where, if he doesn’t let it out in words, it’s coming out in other ways?”

“‘Fraid so.”

Another silent moment passed. Rossi didn’t elaborate. The surest way to hook Ben Rasmussen was to tantalize.

The therapist cleared his throat. “Flight time from me to you is less than an hour-and-a-half.”

“Does that mean you’ll talk to him?”

Ben smiled. He took the hopeful note in Rossi’s question as a tremendous compliment. “I don’t have anything scheduled for the next couple days. B-u-t…” He drew out the qualifying word, enjoying taunting his friend.

“What?”

“If I get stuck in Quantico overnight, I expect to be put up in that mansion I keep hearing about. You know…the one that belongs to some hack of a writer.  Guy who sees mysteries in human behavior where only equations exist.”

“We’re back to that, are we?” Rossi perked up at the thought of some late-night debates concerning the genesis of Good and Evil. “I haven’t changed my mind, Razz. If anything, the job I do has solidified my views, my friend. But, sure…I can put a pillow in one of the bathtubs. You can sleep over.” Ben’s laughter rang out over the connection, making Rossi smile.

“Thanks, Razz.”

“Anytime, Dave.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley had pulled Hotch’s head and shoulders against her.  She stroked the soft, thick hair, trying to smooth away cowlicks and stress at once.

Aaron’s voice was muffled, pressed into her warm, comforting embrace. “It was an accident. Getting shot. An accident.”

“Shhh…Shhh…” She rocked him, dropping a kiss on one particularly disobedient, upright shock! of hair. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now I just want to hold you.”

“I’m sorry, Haley.”

“Shhh…Shhh…” She breathed in his familiar scent, feeling it release the tension in her own chest. “Rest and heal, sweetheart. I’ll take care of everything else. But, please, please, let your job stay away for a little while. You need to separate yourself to really heal. Please.” She felt him twist in her arms, trying to look at her, and knew it must hurt his side. _Where you were shot. Where your **teammate** shot you._

“I told you, I can’t turn them off. I can’t flip a switch and not be part of them.”

“Be reasonable, Aaron. It’s the weekend. You’re off anyway, because you just got back. And you’re on medical leave, right?” He nodded. “So please try to let your mind focus on something else.” She nuzzled his hair, working her way down to a spot behind his ear that could make him quiver. “For me?”

Hotch quivered.

“Think about other things…like…” She continued to nuzzle, knowing it was breaking his concentration. “…like…anything I can get you to eat or drink…or…if you’d like a massage…or…names…names for when we have a baby…” She could feel him relaxing, lulled by the rocking and her soft, lullaby-toned voice.

Which is when Haley’s glance fell on the papers, the release forms on the nightstand. Where Rossi had left them when he’d decided to follow her to the bathroom to act as liaison between her and her husband. Her eyes narrowed to icy chips even as she kept rocking and humming wordless comfort to Hotch. _So. He didn’t need anything signed after all. It was a trick. To get to Aaron._

“Shhh…Shhh…” She continued to murmur. “Rest. Heal. I’ll take care of everything. I will…”

She emphasized her words by making him quiver some more.


	90. Albatross

Morgan paced the length of his apartment so many times that Clooney finally laid down in his path; a passive protest against useless walking that might be put to better use outdoors with the involvement of dog and leash.

Derek knew Hotch was fine. Or would be after some downtime. He also knew the growing compulsion to talk to his boss was the product of residual guilt as much as genuine concern for the man’s wellbeing. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have hesitated to call, but in spite of believing that he’d cleared the way between them, Morgan thought Hotch might want to leave the office behind for a day or two while he licked his wounds. As the one who _gave_ him those wounds, Morgan still wasn’t totally sure of his welcome.

He really needed to hear it once more in Boss-man’s words; needed that voice like velvet gravel to tell him just one more time that they were cool and they’d see each other at work in a week or two. Morgan also needed to hear the subtext that would assure him that Hotch would spurn medical directives, likely sneaking back afterhours, nosing around their case files; in effect, marking his territory, leaving his scent. He wanted to find evidence of Hotch’s clandestine snooping each morning in the form of numerous text message reminders or post-its peppering the files on his desk.

Finally, unable to endure Clooney’s reprimanding looks any longer, Morgan took action and placed a call.

“Hey, Baby Girl. It’s me.”

“‘S’up, buttercup o’ chocolate cream?”

A few beats of silence alerted Garcia, raising her empathic antennae. “D-e-r-e-k…? What’s going on? Are you still freaked out about Hotch!? No!”

A deep sigh… “Yeah.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Prentiss and Rossi _both_ said they’d have done the same thing, but probably messed it up and _really_ hurt him.”

“I _did_ really hurt him, Mama. I put a bullet in him.” Morgan hurried on before Garcia could interrupt. “And, yes, I know it was a split-second decision and I thought I was doing a necessary thing, but…” His verbal pace slowed. “…but you had to be there. To feel your finger tighten on the trigger and know you’re aiming at the back of a guy you…you…”

“A guy you really, really like a whole lot? Kinda like he’s family? Like he’s your brother?”

“Yeah.” It was barely audible; a shameful admission.

A few miles away, Garcia curled around her phone, wishing it had a special frequency that could transmit cuddles and hugs. “I know it sucks. It’s the suckiest thing in the whole world to hurt Hotch.”

“Yeah.”

“But he knows you didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Mmmmmm…”

Garcia sat up straighter, multiple strings of beads around her neck rattling and clicking in the wake of her movement. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean? Derek?”

“D’you realize Hotch might be a daddy by now if it weren’t for me?” Penelope’s stunned silence spurred him on. “Seems I can’t be around him without doing some serious damage to m’man. And it’s gettin’ worse and worse each time.”

Garcia knew she was being allowed into a secret compartment of fears that Morgan kept to himself. It was a privilege and a responsibility to have gained entry. She felt her throat and chest tighten in pre-tears sympathy. “What can I do, Derek? Tell me how can I help?”

Yet another sigh. “You can’t, Baby Girl. I wanna call Hotch and I just needed to dump some of the load before I get him on the line.” His tentative smile carried over to her. “Thanks for bein’ my dump site.”

“Anytime.” Garcia thrilled at having a special function for her idol, even if it didn’t sound very glamorous or romantic. “Hey, you wanna come over later and hang? Watch a movie? Bake brownies? You can give me the whole I-said, he-said on talking with Hotch?”

“Sure, baby. I’d like that.”

Morgan hung up. He motioned Clooney up onto his couch. Taking a seat beside his canine roomie for moral support, he punched in the call to Hotch’s cell.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley held Hotch for a long time.

She felt him relax and eventually drift into a light sleep. Easing him back onto his pillow, she stood at the bedside and looked down at him.

_When he’s relaxed he looks ten…no, **fifteen** years younger. That job’s aging him before his time on top of everything else it does to him…to **us** …_

She crossed to the mirror over the vanity where she kept her jewelry and perfumes. Planting her hands among the shimmering, crystal bottles, she braced her arms and leaned close to the reflective surface. She studied her own face, frowning, thereby deepening the small line between her brows that hadn’t been there a year ago.

 _What am I saying? That job’s aging me, too._ After more close scrutiny, Haley straightened, covering her face with widespread fingers. _I do **not** want to be one of those women who takes her baby out in public and gets mistaken for being a **grand** mother!_ _I do **not** want to look like the Crypt-keeper by the time I have a child!_

She dropped her hands away from her face, lips pressing into a thin, determined line. Had she looked in the mirror again, Haley would have seen the expression springing from her inner resolve was far more aging than knit brows. But her eyes were fixed on slumbering Hotch instead. After a moment, they tracked to the forms Rossi had brought for her husband to sign in order to legitimize his medical leave. Clearly, unnecessary, since he’d left them behind.

_But I don’t really know **what’s** involved in all the red tape surrounding that job. I just assumed it must be a lot because it’s the government._

She moved to the nightstand, letting her fingers trail across the abandoned papers. Again, she studied Aaron’s quiet form. Again, she admired all the traits she hoped he’d pass on to their offspring. Her lips had been pressed into a line before, but now they virtually disappeared.

_It’s going to happen now, my love. While you’re here and I have some say in how you spend your time. Beautiful Aaron, you’re going to give me a child over the next two weeks. And it **will** be two. I’ll see to that. And once you hold our baby, your son or daughter, you’ll forgive anything I do now to make it happen._

She bent, dusting the lightest of kisses across Hotch’s temple with her near-lipless mouth.

She gathered up the papers Rossi had left and headed downstairs to her laptop, trying to recall any names Aaron might have let drop that would be in the FBI’s upper echelons.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Half an hour later Haley was losing her patience, if not her drive.

Even if Aaron didn’t share details of cases with her, she’d picked up enough to know the Bureau was inundated on a daily basis with crank calls and nut-jobs claiming to have vital information pertaining to national security, and a dire need to talk to someone in a high-ranking position.

She couldn’t wade through the multitude of names and numbers and secretaries of outer offices in anything resembling an efficient manner. Pushing back from her desk in a corner of the living room, she gave the staircase a sidelong look. Hotch’s computer was upstairs in his den. It would likely have clues to what she wanted. Maybe even a listing of direct phone numbers or private e-mail addresses.

But everything related to Aaron’s work was securely passworded. And Haley was no hacker.

She sighed, wishing she hadn’t been quite so abrupt with Penelope Garcia. _But she’d never give me what I want anyway._ So any regrets she had for snubbing the tech analyst she’d caught hugging her husband vanished in a dismissive puff.

_Think, Haley. There has to be a way to get quick access to someone who could make the call on how long Aaron’s out of commission. Think!_

A few minutes later, a slow grin erased the sour, dissatisfied lines on her face.

_Aaron’s phone! There’ll be someone in his contacts who’ll fit the bill; who won’t hang up on a woman with their private number who says she’s the worried wife of one of their best and brightest!_

A happy, little bounce in her step, Haley headed to the kitchen; her destination the drawer where she’d stashed Hotch’s cell. The bounce turned to a sprint halfway there. The phone’s battery still had enough juice to signal an incoming call. The rattling noise emanating from where the Hotchners kept their flatware was loud. Haley felt a wave of gratitude that Aaron was upstairs. He surely would have heard the device vibrating, bouncing their knives and forks with a vengeance.

She pulled the drawer open, snatching the phone out of the space at the very back.

The caller ID blazed out at her: SSA Derek Morgan.

For a moment Haley froze, staring at the name of the man who’d shot her husband. The man who, from snippets dropped over the years, was supposedly dedicated to _protecting_ the man he’d brought down with a bullet.

Her thumb moved on its own; accessing the call, then immediately cutting it off.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan regarded his phone with a quizzical expression, which he then transferred to Clooney, who was watching the proceedings with a bright eye.

“Must’ve hit the wrong button.”

 _Maybe someone got Hotch to take his meds for once and he’s a little loopy._ He grinned. _Might make a conversation interesting, if that’s the case._

Morgan nudged the dog by his side. “Think we should try again, boy?” Clooney’s response was a deep and meaningful look, accompanied by a hopeful wag. “Yeah, me, too.”

Morgan put the call through again.

This time it was picked up.

But the warm rumbling baritone he’d expected didn’t answer. Instead, the voice was sharp and chill. Like an unexpected frost. Like a stiletto piercing the chest wall on its journey toward the heart.

“Mr. Morgan, my husband doesn’t wish to speak to you. Please leave us in peace.”

Derek blinked, momentarily stunned. But the field training that made him quick to adapt to changing circumstances kicked in almost by reflex. He recovered his balance before Haley could hang up on him.

“Mrs. Hotchner, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I just wanted to check and see if there’s anything I can do…if Hotch needs anything.”

“I can take care of Aaron’s needs.” Haley couldn’t help envisioning the hand that pulled the trigger that felled her husband. Neither could she help the way her voice began to shake with anger and all the desperate fear she lived with each and every time Aaron was called into the field. “You’ve done enough. Don’t call us again.”

Morgan held his phone, staring at the darkened screen telling him he’d been cut off. Dead. With no chance to explain or apologize. He swallowed a lump of hurt, gave Clooney a pat, picked up his jacket and walked out the door.

Garcia said she hadn’t minded being his dumpsite earlier. He hoped she was still up for company.

Because Morgan needed some in the worst way.


	91. Coming Home to Roost

“Hey, molasses-sugar! C’mon in. I started without you, so…”

Garcia’s welcoming tirade came to an abrupt halt when she registered the expression on Morgan’s face. It wasn’t one he showed to many. Her heart would have given a little skip of joy to know that she was in that minority of treasured, trusted few, but the look was so tragic, bewildered, in need of comfort. Joy fled to someplace distant.

Derek stepped into the colorful splash of an apartment, redolent with the aroma of warm chocolate, and opened his arms.

“Awww…” Penelope shuffled her way between them on rainbow unicorn slippers. “What’s wrong? What happened? Awwww…” After a hearty hug, she pushed back, holding onto the biceps she admired so much, getting a better look at Morgan’s expression. “Oh! God! Did something happen to Clooney? Oh! No! Oh, God, no!”

The need to correct her misconception and divert imminent panic made Derek gather himself together.

“No, no, Baby Girl. Clooney’s fine. He’s home. He’s fine.”

“Then…what?” Eyes, magnified by crimson frames, traveled a frantic journey over Morgan’s features, every empathic feeler upright and operational. When it struck, the moment of revelation widened Garcia’s eyes even more. “Oh! Oh, no! Hotch? Did something happen? Did you find out something when you called him? Derek?”

The need to deal with Penelope’s overwrought, overabundant emotions helped Morgan get a handle on his own. Besides, he’d come here to talk, not burrow into silence and hurt feelings.

“I didn’t talk to Hotch.” He couldn’t help averting his eyes, lowering his head. “He didn’t want to.”

“What? No! What?!” Garcia stared at her friend, technical mind tripping into overdrive, as it could when a situation touched her heart…and Morgan certainly did. Her brow wrinkled. “Are you _sure_?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled his arm, dragging him deeper into her nest of colors as bright as tropical plumage. “Here. Sit.” She pushed him onto a couch cushion that had clearly been waiting for him; a plate of fresh brownies on the coffee table within easy reach.

“Now. Tell me _everything_. From the time we hung up.” She snuggled against him, pulling the brownie plate closer, a tacit invitation.

Morgan shrugged. “Not much to tell. I called Hotch. He hung up as soon as he saw it was me. I tried again and he had Haley answer.” He flinched at the memory. “She was real clear about not wanting me to bother them again.”

“Awwww…” Garcia hugged him again, oozing sympathy. Until the logical, computer-esque mind residing beneath layer upon layer of pink, fluffy, cream-puffiness, drew upon all available data and assembled a working theory. She picked up a brownie, conveying it to Morgan’s lips until he was forced to take a bite.

“That doesn’t sound like our Hotch-rocket.”

“Well…it was.”

“Mmmmmm…I don’t think so.” She caught Morgan’s glance and held it. “Not to speak ill of our fearless leader’s main squeeze, but Haley can be kind of…uh… _terse_.” It was Garcia’s turn to look away, hiding the hurt of her last encounter with the woman. “If you don’t believe me, ask Prentiss. She knows.”

Morgan gave his friend a thoughtful look, recalling her abrupt departure through the bullpen when Haley had been onsite. “You think she was speaking out of turn about leaving them alone? And what’d’you mean ‘ask Prentiss?’” A foreboding shadow fell over his features. “Did those two _do_ something?”

“I’d bet my troll collection Hotch doesn’t know anything about it. He could be on his deathbed and he’d still find a way to stay in touch with each of us. And he’d _never_ turn anyone away. You _know_ that. And I wasn’t there, but, yeah…Prentiss sort of had a…uh…conversation with Haley. Sort of. I guess.”

Wondering what he might have walked into; what feminine altercation was still echoing, Morgan pulled out his phone and brought up his contacts.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Prentiss was enjoying her day off.

She’d spurned the laundry and housecleaning, opting instead to curl up with a sinfully early, bad-girl, carafe of wine, a copy of the collected works of Kurt Vonnegut, and Sergio. She was feeling mellow, but also a little bored, when her phone chimed for attention.

“Hey. ‘S’up?”

“Hey yourself.” Morgan dove right in. “Something going on between you and Hotch’s wife? Something that would make her wanna put distance between Hotch and us? I mean, more than just the usual of wanting him to have a day off, or hating that he got hurt?”

A spluttering snort preceded Prentiss’ response. “Distance is Haley’s whole game! Haven’t you figured that out yet?” She took a sip from her glass. “Why you asking?”

Garcia’s voice overrode Morgan’s. “Chocolate thunder tried to get Hotch on the phone and Haley said he doesn’t want to hear from him.” Her voice lowered, almost as though she didn’t want anyone to hear; as though criticizing the Unit Chief’s wife was in some way disloyal. “She was kinda mean about it, too.”

“That's not Hotch.” Prentiss sounded rock-solid certain.

“I know! But Derek thought it was!”

A few seconds of silence fell. When Emily spoke again, she was all business.

“Maybe Rossi has something to do with it.”

Morgan raised one eloquently skeptical brow. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m the one shot her husband.”

“No, seriously. Do you think Rossi’d let a day go by without checking on Hotch if he’s injured and on leave? Maybe he did something that got to Haley and you’re just collateral damage.”

“Yeah. The collateral damage that shot her husband.”

Prentiss emitted something between a raspberry and another snort. “Hang on. Let me call you back, okay?”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“Coupla things. I’ll get back to you.”

The connection went dead. Morgan and Garcia exchanged wary looks. Sometimes Prentiss leaped into action because it was in her nature to do so, rather than because it was for the best.

And they couldn’t help feeling that the team’s female alpha was looking forward to sinking her fangs into Haley’s unsuspecting haunch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi was making sure he had a guest room suitably aired and ready for Ben Rasmussen.

Even though the man’s visit was occasioned by Hotch’s misfortune, Dave found he was looking forward to some company. He only hoped that he and his guest could engage in some late night discussions without having to tip-toe around _too_ much; without having to be _too_ careful of violating Aaron’s privacy.

He was placing towels in the guest bathroom when Prentiss called.

“Rossi, what’s going on over at Hotch’s?” Emily never was one to waste time. “Morgan just tried calling him and it didn’t go so well.”

Dave paused in the middle of folding a washcloth. “I was over there earlier. When I left I thought things were okay. You’re going to have to give me more to go on, Emily.”

“I don’t have it verbatim, but sounds like Haley gave Morgan an earful about leaving Hotch alone.” She swirled her wine glass. “Did you get the feeling Boss-man’s mad at him?”

Rossi’s shoulders slumped, a fitting accompaniment to his sigh. “No. I’m pretty sure that’s just Haley. Maybe we should back off for a day. I mean, her husband _did_ just get shot. Tell Morgan to wait ‘til Monday and then try again.” An unexpected memory surfaced of when his first wife had been pregnant. “And maybe she’s a little, uh, hormonal, too…ya know? Maybe we should cut her some slack.” Rossi recalled Haley’s eyes as she’d rushed past him to Hotch. There had been love in them. It had warmed his heart toward her. He was willing to overlook what might be a knee-jerk reaction to speaking to the agent who’d pulled the trigger on the man she loved. And he chose to momentarily ignore Reid’s being turned away at the door.

Prentiss wasn’t quite that charitable.

“I don’t care if she’s as hormonal as a teenage testicle, Rossi! She’s been treating all of us like crap.” A note of determination crept into Emily’s voice. “And if she won’t let Hotch speak for himself, things between him and the whole team are just gonna get worse. I can’t let her do that.”

Dave felt his pulse quicken. “Prentiss, what do you intend to do? Do _not_ go over there! You hear me?”

“I promise, I won’t go over.” But the smug note in her voice wasn’t very reassuring. “I’m just gonna leave Hotch a message and let him sort it out.”

“What makes you think Haley’ll pass on anything you tell her?”

“ ‘Cause I’m not gonna use the phone. I’ll email Hotch. You know he’ll check his mail as soon as he can drag himself upright.” A chuckle bubbled beneath the words as she intoned. “Maybe not today…Maybe not tomorrow…But _soon_ …”

Somehow, envisioning Humphrey Bogart delivering the classic line from “Casablanca,” couldn’t quell the bad feeling Rossi was getting.


	92. Flushing Quail

Smiling, Hotch emitted a soft sigh.

He’d fallen asleep in Haley’s arms and even though she was gone when he woke, he did so with the feeling of having been cherished. It was such a rare thing in his experience, he wanted to savor the warm glow in its wake. He smelled something cooking… _Chicken soup?_...and realized he was finally hungry. He opened his eyes.

_If it wasn’t for the stitches in my side, this could be a really nice day._

But then, reality came crashing down. His stomach twisted. He felt pressures and obligations and commitments burying him. The worst part was he couldn’t exert control. Normally, he could wade through the mountains of obstacles and demands, prioritizing and pushing them into compartments as necessary; fending off what felt like innumerable darts and arrows; absorbing the tiny wounds each inflicted.

But he’d lost the ability to do so.

When he tried, it felt as though birds’ wings erupted in his chest, beating a tattoo of rabid panic that threatened to burst his heart. He found himself gasping, hands clenched into fists, muscles cramping with the exertion.

 _God! What’s wrong with me?!_ He made a concerted effort to slow his breathing. _Calm down. Calm down. There’s nothing really wrong. You’re safe. Haley’s safe. The team’s safe. Calm down…down…down…_

He found himself wishing for something solid to hold onto, to keep him from drowning beneath waves of anxiety.

_Dave. I need Dave._

As soon as the image of his best friend, his mentor, his unofficial anchor, formed in his mind, Hotch could finally fill his lungs. Proof positive that…

_I need to talk to Dave._

He turned his head, reaching toward the nightstand with the automatic expectation of finding his phone there. But it wasn’t in its accustomed place. Then he remembered: Haley had taken it. She’d also said she wouldn’t give it back. For a moment Hotch trembled with indecision; a reaction normally foreign to his sharp, decisive mind. But having something to focus on, a simple goal like finding his cell, helped sidestep the panic.

With careful maneuvering, he slid out of bed. Standing, he placed a hand on his injured side and tested just exactly how mobile he was now. On a scale of one to ten; one being an involuntary tribute to the time-honored ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up…’ and ten being ‘I think I’ll go for a run…,’ Hotch believed he weighed in at a solid four. And maybe if he paced around and loosened up, he could even claim a four-point-five.

Realizing that focus was a key to circumventing the roiling, emotional waves seething inside him, he set his goal a little wider: get in touch with Dave. Then he broke it down into steps: loosen muscles by walking to bathroom, and then den; if phone isn’t available, use laptop.

One hand on his side, one trailing along the wall for balance, Hotch began his journey.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi had grown more troubled during the last half hour.

While he tidied things and made his home ready in case Ben Rasmussen needed a place to crash for a night or two, Emily Prentiss had been on his mind. And Reid. And Morgan. And the subterfuge he himself had felt necessary to gain access to an audience with Hotch.

Rossi recognized that Haley had property rights to Aaron the rest of them couldn’t claim, but what rights the team _did_ have shouldn’t infringe on hers. The two sets were _not_ mutually exclusive. Haley didn’t seem to understand that. More and more, he had an uneasy foreboding that things were beginning to snowball from a few flurries of misunderstanding to an avalanche of hurt feelings. And with Prentiss entering the fray, he didn’t think Hotch’s wife had a chance if the two came into direct conflict. Worse, he thought Emily might enjoy such a confrontation. Might even engineer it.

So he decided to get in line, and send a message to Hotch himself that would put a stop to anyone maneuvering behind the Unit Chief’s back, no matter how good their intentions. With a sheepish grin, Rossi realized he was as guilty of doing so as anyone. But now would be a good time to stop things from progressing any further.

He already knew the landline was the only possibility of phone communication with the Hotchner household, but, being a thorough type of person, Rossi tried to reach Aaron’s cell one more time. His brows rose in surprise when Haley answered immediately. They descended just as quickly when she stuck to her guns about keeping her husband incommunicado during his convalescence.

“Dave, please stop calling him. He needs to rest and he needs to get his mind off that job. I’m sorry, but you and your team are part of it. Do you realize Aaron hasn’t even been home for two days and already half of you have been at him? Please stop!”

Rossi bit down on the sharp retort that was the first line of defense to cross his mind.  _Your faith in your husband and your marriage is really weak if you see us as a threat, young lady._  Instead, he opted for diplomacy. “I’m sorry if it seems that way, Haley. But please remember, we’re his friends, too. Not just co-workers. I’d like to think we're all part of that bigger team; the team that cares about Aaron and wants what’s best for him. We’ll try to keep it down to a low level, but we do want to stay in touch. You know it’ll worry him if he _doesn’t_ hear from us.”

Haley’s voice was gritty, laced with sarcasm, when she replied, belying her polite words. “I’m so glad my husband has friends like you he can depend on. Especially friends like Mr. Morgan. But, let’s try this my way first. I know you’ll respect my wishes in this, Dave. And I rely on you to let the others know that Aaron. Needs. A break. Thank you.”

The connection closed before Rossi could object. Not that it would have done any good. He was beginning to see what Hotch meant when he sometimes said that Haley was ‘the strong one’ in their marriage. _But I wouldn’t call it ‘strong.’ I’d call it ‘hard.’_ He shook his head as he pocketed his phone. He had a suspicion that Hotch’s definitions of things like ‘love’ and ‘strength’ were colored by experiences in his early years that were decidedly different from the norm.

_Maybe that’s something Razz can explore._

Having failed at his first attempt to reach Hotch, Rossi took a page from Prentiss’ playbook. Entering his study, he booted up his computer, opened his email, and began composing a message.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch _did_ feel better, as well as more mobile, after cleaning up in the bathroom. But he still wasn’t up to descending the stairs. Nor did he think he was in the right frame of mind to argue with Haley over phone privileges.

He waxed philosophic as he made a slow way into his den, deciding his wife’s actions were indications of her love and her concern for his health. He could forgive a lot when he remembered how nice it had been falling asleep in her arms.

Hotch wondered why it felt so comforting when Haley held him that way. As a profiler, his mind skipped back in time, looking for answers. But he couldn’t find any. He had no recollection of his mother ever wrapping him in her embrace and rocking him. Not when he was sick. Or scared. Or hurt.

_But someone must have. Otherwise, I’d have no emotional frame of reference for it at all._

He shrugged…and then winced as the movement stretched his side, impacting his stitches.

He sat down at his desk, adjusting his position a few times to accommodate the nagging injury. Turning on his computer, he waded through the multiple layers of security and encryption before he could access his office email.

A number of unread messages filled his inbox. Most had been received during the work week and were immediately recognizable as mundane Bureau business pertaining to upcoming meetings, budgets, resource allocations. But two were new, having arrived within the last hour. They also stood out from the pack by virtue of their subject lines.

The first was titled: “Yo! Boss-man! Pick-up!”

The second proclaimed in a more sedate manner: “Aaron, we need to talk.” Hotch smiled, feeling a wave of relief when he saw Rossi as the sender. It felt like a validation of his own need to reach Dave, if the older man was reaching out, too.

Being a man who liked to do things in their proper order, the Unit Chief opened the message that had arrived earliest. As he read, puzzlement gave way to disbelief, and then the first, faint stirrings of anger.

“Hey! Hotch! If you’re mad at Morgan for what he had to do in the field, then you should be mad at all of us. I would’ve shot you myself, but he was quicker on the draw. Rossi would have shot you, too, but he wasn’t there. J.J. and Reid would have shot at and around you, ‘cause that’s the best they can do. Garcia would have nailed you with a shoe or something. So don’t blame Morgan. He’s hurting right now because you wouldn’t talk to him when he called. Just sayin’.”

Hotch was familiar enough with Prentiss’ thought processes to know she was veiling information with indirect references and cavalier humor. He sighed. He knew who had control of his phone. And he had blurted out to Haley that Morgan had been the one pulling the trigger on him. She must have blocked Derek’s call. Ordinarily, Hotch would have gone downstairs and confronted his wife. But his wound and the unstable emotional alchemy brewing in him, making panic and anxiety his first reactions to any upset, made him hesitate.

_No. I...I can’t…I just can’t…_

_D-a-v-e!!_ Hotch mentally wailed for his friend’s help…

…and felt calmer as soon as he read the message Rossi had sent.

“Haley’s made it clear she would like you to take a break from everything BAU. She turned Reid back at the door last night. She’s not letting any of us call you. Email’s the only option. The friend I said I’d find for you to talk to is flying in from Boston tomorrow. Any way you can get Haley out of the house? Maybe develop a hankering for takeout from someplace an hour’s drive away? I know this great little Italian sandwich shop…. Get back to me when you can. And relax, Aaron. There’s nothing wrong that can’t be fixed. I’ll stand by you. You know that. Relax. Deep breaths. I’ll wait for your reply. We’ll get through this.”

Hotch took Rossi’s advice. He closed his eyes and concentrated on filling his lungs, then exhaling with slow deliberation. Again. And again.

But when he began to type his reply, his hands still trembled.


	93. Sitting Pigeon

Trembling a little, having to backtrack and expunge typos every few words, Hotch managed to complete an email to Rossi.

“I don’t like lying to Haley. If you and your friend come to the door, and I’ve told her I’m expecting you, I can’t believe she’d stand in your way.” As he pressed the <send> button, a wave of loyalty to both wife and best friend surged through Hotch. He wanted them to accept each other; to understand that there was room in his life for both. And that he needed both.

No sooner had the feeling surfaced than Hotch felt what he’d come to know as warning signs; like a ravenous shark nibbling its way to the surface, panic bit at him. Any strong sentiment, even one as noble as loyalty seemed to open the cage.

 _Here we go again…. Release the Kraken…_ he thought as he sat back, closed his eyes and tried to tamp down the anxious tendrils stirring, escaping from some unknown source. _Who the hell are you kidding, Hotchner? You know damn well where it all comes from. So what’s wrong with you?! Why can’t you get yourself in hand?_

He leaned forward, elbows on desktop. Careful of slumping over too far; pulling his midsection straighter than the posture usually dictated in consideration of his wound, he buried his face in his hands. Blocking out the world, he tried to listen to his own internal rhythms. Heartbeat. Too fast. Breathing. Too ragged.

When hands descended onto his shoulders, squeezing, massaging with gentle insistence, he startled as though they were electrically charged.

A small, accusatory breath preceded Haley’s words. “Sweetheart, you’re as bad as Dave.” Warm air tickled Hotch’s ear as his wife whispered soft criticism. “I feel like I’m dealing with addicts. You’re addicted to your job and your team is addicted to you.” She kissed the nape of his neck to temper the observation.

Cringing in on himself, Hotch swallowed. Right now mixed signals were the last thing he needed. The faint stirring sensations Haley’s lips aroused were in direct opposition to her words. It was like throwing yet another wrench into his already short-circuiting emotional system.

She toyed with the hair curling behind his ears. “Let’s make a deal, sweetheart. You play by my rules for two days. Just two. No calls, no emails…” Her eyes narrowed at the screen Hotch had open. “…no visits. And see if you don’t feel a million percent better after two…just two…days of complete…total…absolute… _rest._ Away from that place and its people.” She nuzzled his hair. “Deal?”

For a moment, Haley took Hotch’s lack of response for agreement. A tiny, satisfied smile played across her lips. But then, he pulled away from her touch just enough to tell her he didn’t want to be played with at the moment. He inhaled a shuddery breath, releasing it with measured control before speaking.

“No. No deal.” Dark, pained eyes looked up at Haley. “I need them right now. I need _all_ of you.” The way her husband was breathing, in short constrictions through flared nostrils and tight lips, as though he were trying to keep some inner force from breaking free, began to scare her.

“Aaron?” Letting her hands rest on his shoulders, Haley studied his face. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Hotch gave his head a small shake. “I don’t know. But I need…something…not sure what…” He locked eyes with his wife. “Haley, I don’t feel good. I’m sorry. I’m…I don’t know…Sorry…”

“Oh, honey…” She pulled his head to her chest, pressing him against her heart. “Please, let me help you. I _know_ what you need.” Dropping a kiss on cowlicks that could only be described as ‘disgruntled,’ she murmured against his hair. “If you’ll just try things my way for a few days, then I’ll do whatever you want.” She loosened her hold when she felt resistance in his muscles.

Hotch broke away, finding her eyes again. “I told you once before what I want. And now I’m saying I _need_ it. I _need_ you to let me talk to my team and keep in touch with my job.” His voice lowered. “I _need_ you to respect me and my teammates, Haley.”

For several beats, the Hotchners stared at each other. Aaron’s expression was earnest. If one looked close enough, it might even be called ‘pleading.’ Haley’s face was blank…until a subtle shift brought a hardness to it. Without a word, she stepped back, turned, and left the room.

Hotch heard her footsteps on the stairs and wondered if that was the end of their argument; wondered if her retreat meant he’d won some insubstantial victory. Or at least a truce. But, within seconds, he heard her tread on the steps, returning.

Haley walked into his den; came close once more. And extended her hand. In it were the mock forms Rossi had brought, claiming they required Hotch’s signature. Once she was sure Aaron recognized them, she released them, letting them drift to the floor.

“Why should I respect your teammates, when they don’t respect me? Those!…” Haley toed the pages where they’d landed. “…Those!...Those are blatant _dis_ respect, Aaron!” Her eyes filled, but whether the tears were from sorrow or anger wasn’t clear.

Not even to the one who shed them.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia and Morgan were stress-eating brownies, waiting for Prentiss to get back to them, hoping whatever she’d done wouldn’t have repercussions.

When his phone buzzed, Morgan whipped it out with speed and dexterity that would have made a gunslinger proud.

“Prentiss, what did you do?”

“Jeez…relax already.” Emily paused, sipping on her reclaimed glass of wine, giving Morgan time to realize she would proceed at her own pace. But Garcia’s breathless, staccato wail in the background prompted her to put her friends’ minds at ease.

“Em…i…lee…What…did...you…doooo!!??”

“Nothing bad! I swear! All I did was talk to Rossi and then leave an email for Hotch.”

“Eeee?…Eeeemail?” Penelope sounded like a balloon that had just been punctured, all her stress escaping with the realization that direct contact with Haley hadn’t entered the equation. After her post-hugging-Hotch encounter with the woman, timid Garcia wanted to keep a very low profile. Subterranean, in fact. She sighed her relief. “Oh…good…good…”

Morgan wasn’t so easily pacified. “Just tell me you didn’t set up an us-or-her situation for Hotch.”

“I didn’t. I put it in writing so he can look at it and mull it over and dissect it and profile it…but all I said was that he shouldn’t be upset about you shooting him. ‘Cause given that situation, every single one of us would have done the same.” Prentiss’ voice softened. “Better to have an injured Hotch than a dead one. I mean, he _has_ to agree with that. And if Haley’s the problem right now, he needs to make her understand that, too.”

Morgan sighed, voice dropping to match the gentler tone Prentiss had adopted. “Yeah. Thanks for goin’ to bat for me. I thought things were cool with Boss-man, but…”

“They probably are, Derek,” Emily interrupted. “I’m sure this is all Haley. None of us know her very well, but…” Biting her lip, she shook her head. “…I know a cat when I see one flexing its claws.”

She looked down at Sergio, reclining in her lap, and stroked his fur. “And some of them will scratch the hell out of you as soon as look at you. Anyway, let’s wait and see what happens. For what it’s worth, Rossi thought you should give it a day and then try calling Hotch again.”

“Not sure it’ll make any difference, but…yeah, I’ll do that.” Morgan nodded, brushing brownie crumbs from his shirt. “I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks again, Prentiss.”

“Sure. Later.” Emily hung up.

Bending over Sergio, she whispered into one velvety, black ear. “No offense, Serge. Whoever the idiot was who first described women as cats was way off. God only knows how someone like Hotch hooked up with her, but she’s more like a…a…cobra. Yeah…that’s it.” Emily narrowed her eyes, inspecting the analogy.

“Yeah. A cobra and Hotch is a bird; a sitting pigeon. Doomed, just… _mesmerized_ by whatever she does to him.” She shook her head. “What the hell kind of damage has to happen to a guy to make him want _that_?”


	94. "We Think Caged Birds Sing, When Indeed, They Cry."---John Webster

Hotch concentrated on staring at the papers Haley had dropped to the floor. Mainly because he couldn’t bear to look at her. Not when she cried. It tore at his heart, adding yet another strand to the tangled mass of misfiring emotions threatening to burst from his tenuous control, consuming him…them…everything he’d salvaged from the small-town beginnings he despised.

His voice was rough with the effort to contain himself. He drew strength from knowing that if he broke, his tears, on top of hers, would be doubly destructive. They would strike at her when he didn’t wish to strike. They would lend emphasis to his view that she deserved a stronger man than the one before her.

“Haley, I think those were more of a joke than anything. Dave was just trying to get them past me…testing if I was up for a visit.” He lowered to a mumble. “At least that’s how I took it. Not disrespectful.”

She raised her chin, literally looking down her nose at the entire situation, as well as her husband’s justification of his friend’s tactics. “That’s _not_ how _I_ see it, Aaron.”

Haley paused, waiting for him to glance up, wanting to feel she was in full command of her audience. When Hotch failed to do so, she continued anyway.

“I see it as your team trying to trick me. I see it as Dave knowing I wanted you to have some time for yourself…for _us_ …and going against my wishes without even deigning to discuss it with me. He treated me like some kind of _obstacle_ in my own home. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Hotch’s lips trembled, but he shifted his eyes, looking up at Haley from the shelter of lowered brows. “I think it makes you feel like I do sometimes…when no one listens to me or talks things over with me. When they decide what’s best without…well,…without _me_.”

Fresh tears quivered on her lashes. “You’re never _here_ , Aaron! Usually, what I do _for_ you I _have_ to do without you!” She bit her lip, taking a step closer to the man who’d dropped his eyes to the floor again. “Maybe I’m so used to having to operate that way, I forget to include you when you _are_ here. But, be fair. Even when you’re here…you’re not. Your mind and…and…your heart and…and your loyalties aren’t with me. They’re not.” Haley let the sob that had been rising in her throat break free. “You’re still at work. Still with Dave, not me. Not me. Never me.”

It was too much.

Hotch’s guilt threw its bulk to the top of the emotional pile already weighing him down. In an effort to shield himself…and Haley…he leaned forward farther than he should, pulling on his wound. The pain elicited a whimper. And that opened the flood gates.

Hotch sobbed raggedly into his hands.

Guilty.

And ashamed.

And out of control.

Haley’s own tears dried up at the unexpected sight of her husband’s grief. But what really alarmed her was the appearance of a bright, red stain, spreading through the white cotton of his t-shirt, directly over where he’d been shot.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi closed his email after reading Hotch’s refusal to resort to any subterfuge in order to get Dave and his friend through the Hotchner doorway tomorrow. Shaking his head, he sighed, resigning himself to having to operate within the boundaries of honesty and forthrightness to which Hotch adhered.

_Very admirable qualities, Aaron, but someday you’re going to have to learn that not all the games you play in marriage need to be on the table in front of everyone. It’s okay to fudge things a little in the name of peace and harmony._

A wry grin spread across Rossi’s face. He had to admit that the rules of engagement he kept at the forefront of his personal arsenal hadn’t worked very well. At least, not for him. But he still clung to them.

He wandered through the guest rooms he’d prepared in anticipation of Ben Rasmussen’s visit, mulling over how he would present himself when he rang Haley’s doorbell the next afternoon.

Rossi glanced into the room he’d assigned to the therapist and smiled. Although all the bed linens were stacked on a nearby dresser, ready for use, he’d left the mattress bare. However, blatantly visible through the doorway of the attached bathroom, he’d arranged a pillow and a threadbare blanket in the tub. He’d taken care to prop the door open at an angle that granted full view of these provisions.

He was still chuckling to himself, imagining the narrow look that would settle over Razz’ face, when his phone buzzed for attention. The caller ID claimed it was Hotch, but having already encountered Haley on Aaron’s cell, Dave answered with caution.

“H-e-l-l-o?”

“Dave! You have to come! I don’t know what to do! Aaron’s bleeding and he won’t let me take him to a hospital or call 911! And he keeps asking for you! And he’s…he’s…crying! _Really_ crying! Please! You have to come!”

In an instant, Rossi’s mind clicked into professional mode, ready to evaluate and handle emergency situations. “Haley!”

The panic on the other end of the connection continued to pour out as Hotch’s wife lapsed into repetition about bleeding and crying. Rossi resorted to the vocal equivalent of a slap. “Haley, _SHUT_ _UP!!_ ”

The sound of normally smooth-voiced Dave roaring at her, arrested her headlong tirade. In the relatively quiet aftermath, broken only by sniffs and gasps, Rossi took command.

“How much is he bleeding?”

“He’s _bleeding_!”

“How…much…Haley.”

Her voice had an unusual squeak to it; not something Rossi was used to hearing. The steel magnolia seemed to have wilted and dropped a few petals.

“He…uh…I don’t know, Dave.”

Rossi’s response was tight with dread and impatience. “Is there a pool of blood around him? Is he lying in it?”

“Oh…uh…no…no.” Haley’s breathing began to even out. “No. But it’s soaked through his t-shirt.”

“How big a patch? The whole side of the shirt? Is it dripping?”

Rossi’s questions began to impose perspective on Hotch’s wife. They conjured up scenarios far worse than reality. “No. I…I guess it’s just soaked through, but…Dave, I don’t know what to do! He’s _really_ crying! Can’t stop!”

Rossi allowed himself a small, relieved breath. It sounded to him as though Haley’s reaction had more to do with Hotch’s emotions than anything else. Still, he needed a little more to go on to decide if he himself should unleash a 9-1-1 response on the Hotchner household. As for the crying jag, Rossi suspected it was similar to the one he and the team had witnessed in the hospital courtyard in Grand Forks. Knowing Hotch had kept a tight rein on himself to spare Haley, he could imagine when the walls came crashing down, she’d be frightened by the force behind them. _Which wouldn’t have built up if he’d let her in on them all along…if he’d felt safe doing so. Imagine, Haley: your husband is…gasp…human!!_

“How did the bleeding start? Do you know? Were you there?”

“He…uh…he started that…that _crying_!...and I guess it must’ve pulled his stitches out…maybe…Dave, please! We need you!”

Rossi’s voice was the professional one he used to calm and negotiate. It was level; steady and composed. “I’m on my way, Haley. Calm. Down. Aaron’s not going to bleed to death, but I’ll take him in to be checked out. Best thing you can do is sit by him and try to talk him down.” Rossi recalled the earlier episode in front of the grotto fountain. “It’s good to hold him, hug him, let him know there’s a physical presence staying with him. He’ll come out of it. On my way,” he repeated.

He could hear Haley’s voice, shaky but making an effort, low-toned. She was telling Hotch she loved him and everything was alright. She’d forgotten the connection was still open.

Rossi sighed, gave Mudge an apologetic look and a pat, and set off to help the Hotchners.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Sorry…sorry…sorry…”

Hotch kept up his murmured mantra, hoping the shame he felt would siphon off, flushed out by the monotone repetition. He was still in his den, but they’d moved him to a seat on the trunk beside his desk. He was bracketed by his wife on one side, his best friend on the other. He refused to look either in the eye.

Haley rested her brow against Hotch’s bent head, one hand rubbing his thigh. The hardest part for her had been waiting for Rossi’s arrival. Even though Aaron’s sobbing had begun to ease, she had been relieved to abandon him for the brief interval it took her to let Rossi in.

She was grateful for, and jealous of, the ease with which Dave strode into the room, scooped Hotch into his embrace and took command of the situation. Rossi held on in a way that seemed to bolster Hotch, transferring his own strength into the younger man, all the while crooning soft reassurances. Haley admired the dexterity with which Dave controlled Aaron, inspecting the area under the bloodied t-shirt without missing a beat or betraying any reaction that could fuel either Hotchner’s panic.

When finally, finally Hotch quieted, Rossi still held on, his eyes meeting Haley’s over the top of her husband’s head.

“I’m taking him in to have his stitches checked. I’m sure it’s not serious, but he’ll have less of a scar if they’re tightened up. And they’ll probably give him some antibiotics to make sure nothing gets infected.” He hugged Hotch a little closer, both arms wrapped around him. “And tomorrow I’m bringing someone over to talk to him, Haley.” Rossi didn’t blink, waiting for the objection he was sure would come.

“What? Dave, who? Wouldn’t it be better if Aaron got some rest? Especially after… _this_?”

Rossi gritted his teeth, speaking through a clenched jaw. “I’m bringing a man who deals with the special needs of law enforcement officers. Someone Aaron can talk to who’ll listen. Who won’t interrupt or try to put forward his own agenda. Who’ll be able to absorb some of what’s tearing your husband apart and who won’t judge or disclose any of it. Someone who’ll create a _safe place_ for him.”

Haley looked scared, confused. Rossi felt sorry for her, but privately he hoped she felt like a failure in at least one respect.

He’d told her she needed to build a safe place for Hotch to let down his guard. She hadn’t.

So now…Rossi was going to bring in someone who would do it in spite of her.


	95. Clipping Wings

Hotch was quietly obedient. To the point of being malleable.

Whether from shame or exhaustion, or sheer defeat, Rossi couldn’t tell. He took advantage of the younger man’s state to wrap him in a robe and slippers and then bundle him into his waiting BMW. When Haley grabbed her purse and jacket, Dave gave her a withering look. She faltered. It made her feel like a schoolgirl, once again enduring one of Sister Mary Agnes’ reprimands to miss recess; to stay behind and ‘think about what you’ve done.’

Rossi availed himself of her hesitation. He drove off with Hotch, thinking husband and wife would both benefit from a time-out.

Unfortunately, Dave didn’t know that Haley wasn’t so easily subdued.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley stood in the doorway, watching Rossi spirit her husband away.

She shivered, a reaction to her own surfeit of emotion. She’d never seen Aaron so uncontrolled, so devastated. She wanted to crush him in her arms and stamp out all his pain with the pressure of her love. She wanted to _make_ it happen; _force_ it; _destroy_ what hurt her man; drag it out by the scruff of its neck and rend it to a bloody pulp so it would never touch him again…

Yet, through all that powerful desire, she felt impotent.

And scared. This had been so unpredictable. She couldn’t understand how anything she’d said, anything _either_ of them had said could be held accountable for releasing such a tumultuous storm.

When the car turned the corner and was out of sight, she stepped back and closed the door. Hand lingering on the doorknob, she stood for a few minutes, letting her mind replay the day’s events. Her head made small, shaking motions without her being aware. They continued, accompanying her as she plodded upstairs. She wanted to stand in Aaron’s den while it was deserted and quiet.

_Maybe if I sit there, sit where he broke down, I’ll understand._

There was no underlying logic for it, but Haley couldn’t think of anything else to do. If she’d had her way, she’d have smothered her husband in a painful hug and would still be holding on to him. But he was gone. Being in the room where he spent most of his time when he was at home, was the closest she could come to his actual, physical presence.

Her eye fell on the open computer screen.

The email.

Normally, Haley wouldn’t take advantage of Hotch’s lapse in security. He’d impressed on her that the information relating to his job was to be treated as top secret at all times. She knew snooping was wrong. She knew it could lead to undeserved hurt feelings and misinterpretations. And everyone deserved some privacy. Normally.

 _But this is anything **but** normal! _ She cast a gimlet eye over the inbox. Saw the top two messages. Might have closed the whole thing down except for…

…a message from SSA Emily Prentiss. To her husband. Private and possibly personal. Haley’s inner tigress growled, lowering its head in feral preparation to spring. Feeling as though the hand that reached out to the keyboard belonged to someone else, she opened the message, read it…and sighed with relief.

There was nothing overtly personal.

Having stepped over the line, Haley found it easy to take another step deeper into the invasion of Aaron’s privacy. She read Rossi’s message, too. And that’s where her lips pressed into a hard, thin line.

_So Dave **does** want to trick me to get to my husband! I knew it! And Aaron was trying to protect him by covering up…making excuses for him._

Her eyes tracked to the box containing messages Hotch had sent. Heart pounding, already wondering how she’d deal with the feeling of betrayal if Aaron had agreed to go along with getting her out of the house on some pretext when Dave wanted access to him, her trembling finger double-clicked on the reply at the top of the list.

Tears gathered in Haley’s eyes as she read Hotch’s message to Rossi, telling him that he wouldn’t go along with lying to his wife. Love and gratitude surged in her heart, making her ashamed of having pried this far into Aaron’s affairs. With quick, sure movements, she closed out the mail program and shut down the hard drive.

 _But even if I can trust Aaron, this proves I **can’t** trust his colleagues._ She pulled Hotch’s phone out of her pocket. Staring at the dark computer monitor, she tapped the edge of the cell against her teeth, thinking.

Earlier, Haley had found a likely contact she’d considered calling with the intention of making it clear that she thought Agent Hotchner would benefit from a good, solid, two-week respite. She’d vacillated about following through. But if Dave was going to go behind her back and use less-than-stellar methods, doing so herself was only fighting fire with fire, she reasoned.

Feeling her heart-rate increase, she brought up Aaron’s list of FBI contacts. Selecting one, she pressed <call>.

It was the weekend. She was shunted to voicemail.

“You’ve reached the office of Associate Deputy Director Jason Leland…”

She chewed on her lip, waiting for the spiel with its usual disclaimer about calling elsewhere in case this was a dire emergency, etc., etc. etc. When the option of leaving a message was offered, she selected it.

“Hello…” Her voice had a slight shake to it. Although it was from guilt and trepidation about what she was doing, she was also aware that it sounded like an emotional appeal from a distraught spouse. “…This is Haley Hotchner, Aaron Hotchner’s wife. He’s in charge of your Behavioral Analysis Unit. He’s on medical leave, but…but…” Her voice lost some of its control, descending into a realm of genuine fear and worry. “…but I just want someone to know that I think he needs as much time off as you can give him…Please…I’m his wife. I love him. Please let me be sure he’s okay before you take him away again? Please…”

Any planned appeal Haley had in mind, fled. She kept seeing her husband in tears, blood seeping into his t-shirt. She wept. And begged. And hung up feeling conflicted over the whole gambit.

She had no way of knowing that on Monday morning, the secretary who fielded Associate Deputy Director Leland’s calls would decide the matter didn’t warrant his direct intervention. She would simply put through the directive that SSA Aaron Hotchner was to be given a full two-week paid medical leave with the option of more, should he request it.

After all, the man had been shot in the line of duty.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was quiet during the trip to the ER.

Rossi reached across the seat, patting him a few times, but respected the younger man’s desire to close in on himself.

When they reached the hospital, Dave opted to park where he could escort Hotch in rather than pull up to the ER doors and subject him to the stress and hurry of handing him off to gurney-pushing med techs. But once they were indoors and the bloody side of the t-shirt made an appearance, the staff overwhelmed him with questions and urgency anyway.

It was a relief to finally land in a curtained-off cubicle where Hotch was instructed to lie down and Rossi was permitted to stay at his side. Hotch gave his friend a sidelong look.

“I’m sorry about all this, Dave. I didn’t mean to cause anyone trouble. But…” The dark baritone faded away.

“But you couldn’t help yourself. It’s alright, Aaron. I know.” Rossi took a deep breath. “That’s why I’m bringing you someone to talk to tomorrow, remember?” A wry grin crept over otherwise worried features. He gave Hotch a gentle nudge. “You’re high maintenance. Takes a whole cadre of people to keep you in line.”

Rossi’s grin faded at the sad attempt the Unit Chief made to return smile for smile. _But then, an emergency room isn’t exactly a place for levity, is it, Aaron?_

Both were glad when the curtain twitched aside, revealing a white-coated man with sharp, assessing eyes and brisk movements. His glance had fastened on Hotch first, but did a quick dart to Rossi before returning to the man who was obviously the patient. Deft hands began to pull clothing and bandaging away from Hotch’s side, but the words were for Rossi.

“This your boy?”

“Yeah. He’s mine.” Rossi caught the flash of gratitude in Hotch’s eyes. He edged closer and surreptitiously took the younger man’s hand, squeezing it; a message of encouragement. Didn’t let go.

The white-coat bent close, inspecting Hotch’s side. His eyes flicked to the chart he’d been handed containing this patient’s vitals. When he straightened, he stretched his lips in a smile that had nothing to do with humor, but everything to do with professional reassurance.

“This won’t be too bad. I’ll send you up for a little local anesthetic and have them tighten up the stitches. You’ll be fine Mr….” He glanced at the forms again. “..uh…Hotchner. When they’re done, I’ll give you a shot of antibiotics and a prescription…and you’ll be on your way. Questions?”

None were forthcoming, so the doctor gave Hotch’s shoulder a pat, simultaneously catching Rossi’s eye and tilting his head toward the room beyond the flimsy, white curtain intended to give the patient a feeling of privacy.

“Be right back.” Rossi squeezed Aaron’s hand one more time before following the ER physician out. When they were clear and had walked a short distance away to ensure the patient couldn’t hear, the doctor stopped, giving the page with Hotch’s vitals another look.

“Pulse, blood pressure, respiration…they’re all high. Is your son having some anxiety?”

Rossi didn’t bother correcting the assumption that he and Hotch were related. As far as he was concerned, they might as well be. “Yeah, he’s got some things to work through.”

“In addition to that gunshot wound?”

Rossi nodded. “I’m getting him someone who might help. Bringing him in tomorrow.”

“Good.” The doctor’s eyes were already tracking new arrivals to his ER. “If you like, I can give him something that’ll calm him down; take the edge off. I can do it when I give him the antibiotics.”

Rossi considered for a moment.

Left to his own devices, Hotch would refuse medication. Having seen the man swamped by tsunamis of emotion twice now, and having seen how the aftereffects made him feel like an out-of-control weakling, Dave made an executive decision.

“As long as it doesn’t knock him out. Just, as you said, takes the edge off.”

“Not a problem.” The doctor turned away, motioning for an aide to take Hotch’s paperwork and arrange for him to be treated, when Rossi spoke up.

“Doc, why’d you want to ask me this instead of him?” He jerked his chin toward the now open-curtained section where Hotch was being helped into a wheelchair for his trip to have his stitches attended.

The physician gave Rossi a genuine grin. “I get all types. I’m pretty good at reading them. Him…? I’d say he’s a tough customer and resists help from others most of the time…and…” He made eye contact with Rossi. “He trusts you.”

Dave gave him a quizzical look. “What makes you think that?”

The white coat’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Most sons who love their fathers do.” He winked. “Saw you take his hand. Saw him not want you to let go.”


	96. Opposing Bird's Eye Views

Rossi found it predictable that Haley was waiting on the street, craning her neck in the direction from which she knew the car carrying her husband would come.

He also thought it predictable when she tried to wedge her way between him and Hotch during the walk to the front door.

Rossi’s patience wore out. And he didn’t care if Aaron was a witness to it, although he regretted the possibility of landing the man in the middle of an argument when he was sedated and feeling vulnerable both physically and emotionally.

“Haley, stop it!” Rossi took Hotch’s arm, pulling him closer, defying the woman to start a tug-of-war. “You called me for help. Now back off and let me _help_ , for God’s sake!”

Haley blinked, and then did something Rossi found totally _un_ predictable. Eyes glittering with too much moisture, she nodded, stepped around the two men, and preceded them up the steps. Holding the front door open for them, she whispered, “I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry…”

It reminded Rossi of Hotch. The similarity became truly unsettling when Aaron chimed in… “Sorry…sorry…sorry…”

Shaking his head, the older man supported his friend into the front vestibule. Hotch tried to take some of his weight off Rossi by reaching a hand toward the little hall table, the piece of furniture that had already suffered multiple insults under the burden of the Hotchner’s combined lust. It tipped drunkenly to one side and emitted a cracking noise.

“Hotch!”

“Honey!”

Both of Aaron’s escorts drew closer; Rossi grabbed the Unit Chief’s wrist, pulling the attached arm over his own shoulders, taking on more of the man’s weight. Haley stood before her husband, hands automatically reaching for his waist…which elicited a groan when her palm settled over the freshly refurbished stitches. Haley snatched her hand back, eyes widening.

“Oh! Sweetheart! Oh, no! Sorry! Sorry!”

Hotch swayed in Rossi’s grip, mumbling vague phrases that were more echoes of those around him than products of independent thought. Dave hoisted the man’s bulk a little higher. _So much for that doc ‘just taking the edge off.’ Shoulda warned him Hotch doesn’t have much tolerance for drugs._ He shrugged. _Maybe it’s for the best. Needs to be put down for a nap anyway._ But when he looked at the stairs, the distance to the Hotchner bedroom seemed daunting.

“Haley, I’m gonna put him on the couch. He’ll be able to make it upstairs under his own power after he’s had some rest.”

“Oh! Of course. Sure. Sure…” Hotch’s wife scurried to prop up pillows and unfold a quilt kept handy for happier times when snuggling was a regular evening’s occupation.

Hotch allowed himself to be lowered to the impromptu bed. Once settled, he looked up at Rossi, eyes not quite focused. “Dave, I don’ feel right. Wha’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you!” Haley interrupted, voice strident. “It’s your _job_ that’s all wrong, Aaron! Not you!” She turned imploring eyes on the men. “Why can’t either one of you _see_ that?!”

“Not…Now…Haley.” Rossi was all for open, forceful argument, especially since having witnessed the ice-fest that characterized Hotchner marital disputes. But not when one of the partners was incapacitated. The stricken look on Hotch’s face was clear evidence of his vulnerability. Haley was taking unfair advantage.

Hotch’s wife and best friend locked eyes. When Rossi spoke, he didn’t break his focus, pinning Haley with his sharp stare.

“The doctor gave you something to relax you, Aaron. I told him it was okay. Don’t worry. It’ll wear off in a little while.”

“Dave…” Hotch pulled at his friend’s hand.

Something about the motion tugged at Rossi’s heart as well. It reminded him of a child begging for attention. Giving Haley a last, narrow look, he turned kinder eyes on Aaron. “What?”

“‘M sorry ‘bout all this.”

“Be quiet and get some rest.” He ruffled the dark hair, knowing it was a fatherly gesture he could inflict on Hotch in the man’s drugged state. He smiled. _So I guess Haley’s not the only one taking advantage of the situation._

“Need a…a favor.” Aaron was fading, heavy-lidded.

“What would that be?” Humorous affection lilted through Rossi’s words. “Another blankie? Got a teddy bear stashed away somewhere?” He could feel Haley bristling at his side. _Probably thinks any request for comfort should go to her first. And she might have a point. This **is** her home. **Her** man…_

Hotch blinked, trying to stave off the sedation. “Laptop. In my office…Please?”

Rossi frowned, looking down at the earnest, importunate face. “O-h-h-h…Aaron…no. You probably shouldn’t be doing any work while you’re…uh…under the influence?” He shook his head. “Not a good idea. At such times, email and phone calls are to be avoided at all costs. I know whereof I speak, my young friend.” He delivered the last as a sage pontiff who had learned by unfortunate experience that scotch and certain means of communication did…not…mix…

Hotch’s eyes shifted to Haley; their pleading look made further verbal entreaty unnecessary.

She glanced toward the stairs, then saw Rossi appraising her as though this were a test to see if she really knew what was best for her husband. She welcomed the opportunity. Taking a seat on the edge of a couch cushion, she stroked Hotch’s hair; smoothing the cowlicks Rossi had raised into semi-submission.

“I’ll bring you your laptop, sweetheart, but just so you can have it nearby. You can’t use it yet. It’ll be here by your side waiting for you after you’ve had a little nap.”

Haley leaned over, brushing her lips across Hotch’s. With a fond smile, she gave his hair one more caress. Standing, she granted Rossi a cordial nod and made her way upstairs, grateful for a perfect cover story. She could tell Aaron she’d logged him off without incurring even a whiff of suspicion that she’d pried into his confidential communications.

But Haley knew she’d have to draw on all her high school-level acting skills to thank Dave for coming when called…now that she knew he had no qualms about tricking her with all manner of subterfuge to get to Aaron. Falsified documents…Bogus errands to take her out of the house…

 _Well, you won’t slip anything past me again. I know your type, David Rossi. You’ll do anything to get your way._ She couldn’t help a small frisson of appreciation. Without analyzing too deeply, she could identify with that kind of determination. _And I bet that’s one of the reasons you couldn’t hold onto any of your wives._ A small smile quirked her lips.

_You should have married someone like my Aaron. Sweet. Unassuming. Not a mean bone in his beautiful body. He needs people like us…well…like **me** … to balance him out and make sure he’s headed in the right direction._

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Haley returned, bearing the laptop like an offering, Hotch was asleep.

Rossi had tucked the quilt around him and stood looking down at the younger man with a preoccupied expression. He didn’t register Haley’s presence until she set the computer down with a thump on the nearby coffee table.

Her voice was Southern silk at its best. “Dave, thank you for coming. Really. But I think I can take it from here. I’ll make sure he rests and doesn’t overdo the work thing too much.” She was barely above a whisper, in consideration of Aaron’s slumbering state. But the dismissal in her tone was unmistakable.

However, Rossi wasn’t ready to be dismissed. He nodded toward the kitchen; an invitation to further discussion. Haley trailed after him with open reluctance, her eyes straying back to her sleeping husband. Once they were behind the kitchen door, Rossi claimed her full attention.

“Haley, I meant it earlier when I said I was bringing someone by tomorrow to talk to Aaron. After this little incident, even you have to admit he needs more help than either of us can give him.”

She surveyed Rossi, calculating her adversary’s position.

“ _Even_ me? Even _me_ …?” Her eyes hardened. “You say that as though I don’t have Aaron’s best interests at heart.” Then her voice, hardened, too. “Do I have to remind you, Dave, that when he’s with _me_ , he’s fine. It’s when he winds up in _your_ company…you and that team…that he’s battered, bruised, traumatized… _shot_!...and by his _own_ people! I know what Aaron needs. More than _any_ of you. Because I see him when he’s not trying to be your precious leader. When he’s with me, he’s just Aaron.”

Haley hated that she couldn’t keep tears from her eyes or a quaver from her words. “When he’s with _me_ , he doesn’t have to be bigger or better or tougher or in charge. He can just be my husband. You told me I needed to make him someplace safe. Well, _I’m_ his safe place! _You’re_ the ones pushing him with all your expectations and laws and procedures. _You’re_ the ones who hurt him!”

Rossi’s expression was closed. The only reason he didn’t raise his voice was in deference to Hotch asleep in the next room. He tried to keep his temper, accessing his profiling skills in hopes of breaking through what he saw as this woman’s crust of self-absorption.

“You view the world through a very _unique_ framework, Haley.” She recoiled slightly at his tone. “Aaron chose _us_ , his team, as surely as he chose you…or…” Rossi’s brows rose. “…or maybe not... Is that it? Did you set traps for him? Did you hunt him? Is that why you’re so threatened?” He shook his head. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you stopped seeing who Aaron is the second he put a wedding band on your finger. You haven’t seen him change over the years of your marriage. You keep trying to shove him into the nice, little gift-wrapped box that he came in. He’s the best present you ever got and you won’t let him grow or deviate from the path you saw when you decided you wanted him. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Haley shivered with suppressed anger. How dare anyone speak to her like that in her own home?! But she couldn’t reply. She’d never told Aaron how she’d decided he would be hers. She’d never mentioned that she engineered his success in wooing her. It was unsettling that this man standing before her could know such intimate details of which even her husband was largely unaware.

And it was frightening. Haley liked her secrets. They were part of her power. If Dave could unravel them, her influence over Aaron’s life might lessen. She drew herself up, pulling on every scrap of dignity at her disposal.

“That’s enough, Dave. I don’t need you to play your profiling games with me. Or Aaron. As I said before, I’m very grateful for your help this evening, but I can take it from here.” She raised her chin and managed to look down her nose at Rossi despite his greater height. “Good night, Dave.”

Weary of the entire, emotional day, his shoulders sagged. “Alright, Haley. We’ll call a truce for now. But I _am_ coming by with someone Aaron needs to speak to tomorrow. And he _will_ have a private session with Aaron.” He sighed. “All I want to do is help. Believe it or not, I really _do_ want to see the two of you happy. And parents. And growing old together. Believe it or not.”

Rossi left Haley blinking moisture from her eyes in the kitchen. He took a last look at Hotch before letting himself out.

Walking to his BMW, he felt a twinge of guilt. He’d accused Haley of hunting Hotch as though being in the BAU had been a matter of free choice.

In reality, Rossi had maneuvered, and manipulated, and pushed to acquire Aaron Hotchner, too. And one of the people who was very aware of that; who’d been in opposition was Ben Rasmussen, who was arriving tomorrow .

Dave really hoped the phrase “I told you so” wouldn’t surface after Razz’ session with Hotch.


	97. Ruffled Feathers

Rossi stood behind his guest, hands in pockets, lips pressed together, putting up a valiant struggle to maintain his composure.

Ben Rasmussen’s fingers tightened around the grip of his overnight bag. His shoulders tensed; the fabric of his jacket quivering as it pulled across them, giving his host visible proof of impact.

“Well,” Razz muttered. “Well, well, well.” He stood in the doorway of the room to which he’d been led. The room where he’d be staying. The promised room. The Spartan, stripped-down room containing a strategic view of a bathtub holding pillows and a threadbare blanket that looked as though it might be on grudging loan from Mudgie’s much finer digs.

The therapist turned, fixing Dave with a scornful eye. “I knew it. Knew all that talk about being a successful author was rumor. Probably started it yourself. Probably housesitting for some rich, fat-cat. Yeah. Moonlighting as a house sitter to make ends meet. Knew it. Knew it all along. Probably homeless. You’re a fraud, Dave. An unconscionable, old fraud.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rossi mastered his undignified giggle-impulse, lifting his nose into the air in aristocratic censure. “Well…takes one to know one.”

Razz elevated his own nose in defiant challenge. “Pithy retort indeed. Worthy of a best-selling author? I…think…not…”

They would never know what heights the exchange might have attained.

Mudgie was ready for his mid-morning nap. Unable to find his favorite blanket in its accustomed place, he followed his nose in search of this most prized possession. Nails ticking on the mahogany flooring, he pushed past the two men, making an ambling beeline to the bathroom. After a moment’s consideration and a disgruntled ‘whuff,’ he pulled the blanket from the tub. Tail doing a slow wag of triumph, the dog exited, fabric wadded in his mouth, trailing alongside, occasionally getting stepped on.

Rossi shrugged. “I might be able to dig up a beach towel or something you could have instead…”

Razz finally lost the battle and his poker face. Laughter echoed through the halls of the Rossi mansion.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The two men worked in tandem to make up the real bed in which Razz would be sleeping.

Eventually, Rossi’s smug grin and sporadic chuckling got to the therapist.

“You’re incorrigible, Dave. Always have been. Born scoundrel.” A provocative note entered Razz’s voice. He was about to resurrect an old battleground. “No wonder you couldn’t stay away from the FBI. You _had_ to return. _Bunch_ of scoundrels. Drew you like a magnet.”

Rossi allowed himself one more satisfying belly laugh before addressing his friend’s comments. “Is that why you chose _not_ to take a permanent position with the FBI? The likes of me? Ahhhh…yes…” He breathed out a sigh. “…It’s all coming back to me now…You weren’t exactly a fan of government on the federal level.”

“No, I’m not.” Razz’s voice dropped its veneer of levity. “There’s a qualitative difference; a feel to the work that I couldn’t abide.”

“I don’t think you stayed long enough to justify making that a permanent opinion, though, Ben.”

The use of his proper name was the signal that a discussion of more serious matters had well and truly begun.

Razz finished stuffing a pillow into its case before responding.

“I think the larger government gets, the more goal-oriented it becomes. The human variable is taken into account, but moves closer to being a number and farther from being an individual possessed of all the frailties and miracles that make it, well… _human_.”  He fixed Rossi with eyes that held nothing but the earnest desire to communicate a heartfelt view. “The police operate on a lesser scale than your Bureau. They’re more people-oriented. I needed that.” And then Razz threw down the gauntlet between them. “I believe your troubled agent…the one with the dark hair and the feral eyes?...I believe he’s the same way.”

Rossi straightened from tucking in the hem of a sheet, studying his friend and adversary. His voice was soft. “I’ll grant you the FBI operates on a larger playing field, Ben. But the work’s the same. It boils down to the actions and intentions of people. If anything, the goal might be considered on a grander scale; serial offenders and national security. I would have thought that mattered to you.”

Rossi was at once surprised and reassured to see Razz’s eyes glisten with a surfeit of emotion.

“I love my country, Dave. Make no mistake about that. If asked, I would give my life for it. But I find it a much more noble, much more attainable goal to ease the pain of one human mind, than to foster the ignorance of millions.”

Rossi frowned, eyes darting over the therapist’s face. “I don’t follow.”

“Much of your work begins and ends in secrecy. Those you protect frequently have no idea of the perils you avert.” Razz’s eyes dropped to the Persian rug beneath his feet. “As laudable, as _necessary_ as that might be, for me it still smacks of a kind of subterfuge that is too close to dishonesty for my taste.” He resumed eye contact. “I could do it. Hell, I _did_ do it. But I know enough about myself to realize that over time, with prolonged immersion in the FBI culture, it would do irreparable damage to me.” He shrugged. “I got out. Plain and simple. I’m better off where I am. I can handle the Boston PD. I don’t even want to _try_ to handle the nation.”

Rossi nodded, a sad version of sympathy evident in his entire demeanor. “I’m sorry, Razz. I do understand. I guess some people just can’t, you know…put it away with the badge. Tuck it in a pocket and forget it’s there. Walk away.”

Dave gave the bedspread a final brush, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Maybe now would be a good time to talk about Aaron Hotchner…Hotch…”

Before he  could elaborate, Razz interrupted. “No. I want to go in without any preconceptions.” He flashed a genuine grin. “And don’t worry, Dave. I’ll try to leave my biases about the FBI and the type of people who _shouldn’t_ be working there at the door.”

Rossi’s brow was creased with concern. “He’s a good man, Razz. He’s done a lot of good for others, too, because the Bureau gave him the platform to do so.”

The therapist looked into Dave’s worried eyes. “I’m sure he _is_ a good man. But is he the _right_ man for that type of daily mental and emotional rigor?” He sighed. “Again…don’t worry. I’m not here to give career advice. Especially not to a man who’s hurting and vulnerable. All I’ll do is listen and see if there’s a way for him to manage his pain, okay? Deal?”

Rossi nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “You want to get started? I can take you over there now.”

“Sure. The sooner, the better. For his sake.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Sunday morning passed peacefully at the Hotchner household.

Aaron had been more drained than anyone suspected and more susceptible to the lingering effects of sedation than anyone could have predicted. He remained all night on the couch in the makeshift bed Haley and Rossi had arranged. But not alone.

Haley spent a good part of the dark hours at her husband’s side. Sitting on the floor, legs folded under her, she leaned against the cushions, studying Hotch’s unconscious face…reviewing her own actions with as objective a mindset as she was capable…

…and deciding she had no regrets.

 _Just look at him. He needs rest and maybe if he’s away from that place long enough, he’ll be better able to see my side of it all_. She cupped his cheek, mourning at how lean and gaunt it had grown.

_Oh, Aaron…I love that you can’t eat because you’re excited about returning to me. But I hate how being away from me in the first place has made you harder and sparer and sadder. Think how much better it’d be if you never left at all. Think how much better you’d **feel**._

_And **I’d** feel better, too. All the things I’ve had to do to make up for problems that begin and end with your job and your team! I’m not proud of reading your mail or hiding your phone or calling your office…but I wouldn’t have had to do any of it if that place and those people weren’t chipping away at your health and your happiness bit by bit. _ She rested the lightest of touches over the freshly stitched wound on Hotch’s side. _Sometimes life-threatening bit by bit…_

When she returned her gaze to his face, Aaron’s eyes were open.

He stared…drinking her in. “Morning.” It was a whisper. Somehow whispering seemed almost mandatory.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Haley stroked his hair back from his temples.

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon. You slept a long time. Are you hungry? You must be…”

“I…” Whatever response was on the tip of Hotch’s tongue was drowned out by an alarming, intrusive growl from his stomach.

Both Hotchners’ eyes widened in surprise. When the growl performed an encore and then took a few curtain calls, both dissolved in laughter. Which was fine for Haley, but torture for Aaron. Curling in on his midsection, he struggled to stop. Each time he failed, and another spasm gripped his side, lances of pain skewered him.

“Shhh…shhh…shhh…no…no…stop…shhh…” Haley tried to stifle her husband’s mirth once she realized he was hurting. There was little she could do. Finally, moaning, Hotch subsided, panting and limp.

“Are you alright?” Haley tried to straighten his body, anxious to see if another trip to the ER would be needed, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks when his bandage revealed itself to be an unstained, pristine white.

Hotch groaned. “I’m okay…I’m okay…I’m okay…”

She held him until his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed. This time when his stomach growled, neither found it humorous.

“How about a soft-boiled egg and toast?”

Hotch wasn’t as fond of eggs as he used to be, but he couldn’t dash the hopeful look in Haley’s eyes. He nodded, still a little short of breath.

“Great.” She levered herself up from the floor. “Be back in a few…”

But before she could reach the kitchen, the front doorbell rang. Haley froze. She didn’t need to see. She knew who must be standing on the welcome mat.

_Dave. It’s Dave and whoever it is he wanted Aaron to talk to…_

She hated the thought of yet another person invading their lives. Yet another who would be privy to things about her husband that might be kept from her. But when the bell rang a second time and was accompanied by a brisk, commanding knock…and when she glanced back in the living room and saw Aaron’s expectant, but slightly nervous look…she knew she was trapped. There was no way around letting Dave and the stranger in.

Gritting her teeth, Haley went to answer the door, hoping that whoever Dave had brought wouldn’t be female.


	98. Lame Duck

Haley’s eyes were pulled, and held, by the stranger’s grave regard.

“Haley Hotchner, this is Ben Rasmussen. He’s here to see Aaron.” Rossi’s introduction, though cordial, had an edge to it. He wasn’t sure of his reception into Chez Hotchner.

Haley gave the silent, appraising eyes of the stranger a wary nod by way of greeting. Then she focused on Rossi. “Dave, he _just_ woke up. He needs some time to have breakfast and get cleaned up. Couldn’t you come back later?”

“Ohhhh…I’ve bunked with him a hundred times on the road, Haley. Nothing about his scruffy self I haven’t already seen…and commented on.” The wide, avuncular grin told Hotch’s wife that the tactic of claiming Aaron needed privacy or primping time before accepting callers would never fly.

Caught between a desire to send the men packing and the strict rules of her upbringing when it came to hospitality, she stepped back, pulling the door wider and allowing company to enter. But not without a disconsolate sigh and a thinning of her lips.

Hotch struggled to win his way free of his quilt. Barefooted, he stood facing the entry to the living room, curiosity written across his otherwise open expression. Rossi strode past the lady of the house; Razz in tow. He pushed the therapist forward, noting that each man was sizing the other up, making good use of their respective professional skills to form accurate assessments.

“Ben Rasmussen…this is Aaron Hotchner…” Rossi let a sly smile steal across his lips. “…who apparently needs breakfast and a moment to ready himself before your onslaught.” He allowed himself a small thrill of evil glee when Haley’s brows rose over widened, troubled eyes at the term ‘onslaught.’ But he was quick to rein himself in despite his enjoyment of pushing her buttons. It would only make things more difficult for Aaron in the long run.

“Mr. Hotchner.” Razz extended a hand, pleased with the firm grip he received even if the man standing before him looked a little the worse for wear.

Hotch hedged on his own greeting. “Is it _Dr_. Rasmussen?”

“Yes,” Haley chimed in, stepping to her husband’s side and taking his arm; a move she felt was necessary to reestablish her position in light of Rossi’s cavalier attitude. “What _are_ your qualifications?”

“Haley…” Hotch’s admonition harkened back to his own upbringing that required visitors be made welcome first and foremost. It wasn’t like his wife to abandon such protocol.

“I want to know, Aaron.” She gave his arm a proprietary squeeze. “And I want you to eat something. I’m sure these…gentlemen…won’t mind.”

Razz smiled for the first time. “I think it’s wise of your wife to question someone who enters her home to have dealings with her husband. Shows care and protectiveness.” He turned the full force of his not inconsiderable charm on Haley. “I don’t mind discussing my training. And I’m all for this man having his breakfast. Is it okay if we talk while you feed him?”

Mollified, Haley nodded. She’d expected more of a battle. She’d been anticipating one, in fact. But when this intruder spoke as though acknowledging that she had territorial rights over Aaron, it took all the wind out of her sails.

She blinked. Bit her lip. Couldn’t think of any objection that would sound legit. Southern manners asserted themselves. “Of course. Sure. This way…please….”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Aaron viewed the soft-boiled egg perched before him with a jaundiced eye.

He began tapping the shell open, partly to reassure Haley that this _was_ her turf, and partly because as the group had settled around the kitchen table, his stomach had issued another growling protest over its empty state.

The others had coffee. Still, Hotch felt conspicuous as all eyes tracked his progress. He was relieved when his wife renewed her investigation of Rasmussen’s background.

“So… _do_ we call you ‘doctor?’”

Razz shrugged, taking an appreciative sip from his cup. “I have a doctorate, so you could, but titles like that never impressed me, so I’ve never insisted on their use.” One side of his lips quirked upward in a crooked grin. “That attitude has pissed off a number of colleagues to no end, so I’ll leave it up to you. ‘Ben’ is fine. So’s ‘Razz.’ But if it makes you happy, ‘Dr. Rasmussen’ _is_ an option.”

Haley’s brows rose, her lips parting to ask more. The therapist jumped in with the answer before she even finished drawing breath.

“As for my training, I majored in psychology as an undergrad. Went on to earn my master’s degree as a forensic psychologist…” He nodded toward Rossi. “…which is what led to my path crossing with Dave’s. But I didn’t like the field. So I went back to school for my doctorate and now I’m a clinical psychologist who spends most of his time soothing cops for the Boston PD.” He raised his brows at Haley, inviting either continuing inquisition or official acceptance of his credentials.

Hotch had wolfed his egg and toast, finding, once tasted, his hunger took over, rendering his egg-related grievances moot. He took up the thread of discussion.

“So you were in forensics. Did you work _with_ Dave?”

The older men exchanged meaningful glances. “I did. I was part of the panel that adjudicated candidates for the BAU.”

A few beats of silence followed as Hotch digested both breakfast and information. “Was I one of those candidates?”

“Yes.”

Hotch frowned. He had a feeling there was much, much more to the story. Something about the neutral, noncommittal tone of that single word compelled him to serve up a single word of his own. “A-a-a-n-d…?”

“A-a-a-n-d you entered the BAU and worked your way up to the very respectable position you now hold.”

Hotch studied the therapist, deciding the best strategy to find out what lurked beneath the surface of his statement was infiltration. Have a session with him, but keep all his profiler’s instincts honed and aimed. He sighed, pushing his own coffee cup away.

“We should get started. I’m just the first stop, ‘cause Dave and I decided to set an example for the rest of the team.”

This was the first Razz had heard of the ploy. He could feel Rossi stiffen at his side. Could almost hear him thinking ‘Uh-oh…forgot to mention that…’ With suave smoothness that demonstrated he could lie with the best of them despite his aversion to dishonesty, Razz didn’t miss a beat.

“Setting an example is a powerful form of leadership.” His eyes were fixed on his own cup. He felt Rossi’s foot nudge him beneath the table. He assumed it was an indication of gratitude for catching on. “So…where would be a good place for us to talk alone, Mr. Hotchner?”

“It’s ‘Aaron.’ And I’d like to go upstairs.” Hotch looked apologetic. “It might take me a few minutes to get up there, though, and…uh…I’d like to freshen up a little first. If that’s okay.”

“Just tell me where and I’ll meet you there.” Razz stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Hotchner. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

It was a dismissal that wasn’t lost on Haley; the subtext being that from that point on, husband and wife would be separate. She might have objected outright, but Rossi was watching her in a most disconcerting way. Still, she had to try…

“Aaron, sweetheart, don’t push yourself. Promise me you’ll stop if you feel tired. Okay?”

Hotch moved with slow deliberation, brushing his lips against her hair. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Just remember: I’ll be right here if you need anything. I’ll be listening, so call if you need me.”

Rossi watched Hotch and Razz proceed up the stairs, already talking in voices too soft to be overheard. He saw Haley’s eyes tracking their every step, and decided it would be a kindness all around if he distracted her. Even if it were done a bit _un_ kindly…

“Haley?” Rossi leaned closer, touching her arm to gain her attention.

“Mmmmm?” Her gaze remained fixed on her husband.

“Haley, what did you do with Aaron’s phone?” She stiffened. Rossi’s voice continued, sounding warm and jovial. “I’m really good at it, but, please, don’t make me search the house…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Once Hotch had washed and shaved, he joined Razz in his home office.

The therapist had spent the intervening time prowling through the books and photos on display. He was aware that this room, of all available, was one that gave Aaron a shield. It proclaimed ‘Here lives an agent of the FBI, a professional.’ A different, less business-oriented locale would be more revealing of the man behind the badge.

He was considering suggesting they retire to a bedroom instead. But when Hotch finally entered, looking pale, moving with ginger care…he shelved the idea.

Away from the protective distraction of the man’s best friend and wife, Razz saw a fragility and wariness that made him think a little shielding wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He waited for Hotch to settle himself in a chair, then took one himself, pulling it around to where he had a direct view of the younger man’s face.

Hotch gave him a perfunctory smile, then lowered his eyes, finding his own hands suddenly of inordinate interest. Razz watched, feeling the tension between them increase with each moment of silence. He decided to make the first move. He kept his voice low, nonthreatening.

“Aaron, I _did_ evaluate you during your initiation into the BAU, so you’re not entirely a stranger to me. Looking at you now, I get the impression that you’ve been troubled for some time. And maybe things are coming to a head? Why haven’t you asked for help before?”

Hotch shrugged. The baritone reply was sad, shy, almost wistful. “Because there wasn’t anyone to ask.” His glance was quick, dark, before it returned to his hands. “Dave’s my best friend, but I have to work with him, too. And there are things I’d rather not…” His voice faded, opting to keep whatever those ‘things’ were private a little longer. He sighed. “I prefer to go through things alone. I guess I didn’t have a choice for a long time. I guess it’s a pattern now.”

Razz saw the conflict: this was someone who hoped for help, but never, ever, expected it. He had to remind himself that this was not the raw recruit he’d once analyzed. Yet he still thought he detected the same qualities in this older version that had made him sorry the boy was being ushered into the rarefied ranks of the BAU. _But I’m not here to dissuade him from the FBI. I’m here to help him learn how to live with the choices he’s made._

With a gentle hand, Razz reached out and tapped Hotch’s forehead, making him connect eye to eye.

“Then maybe it’s time to alter that pattern. I’m not saying we can do it in one afternoon, but we can at least make a start.” He leaned back, pleased that Aaron didn’t evade, but kept looking at him.

 _He wants help. Knows he needs it._ For the first time, Razz felt a frisson of concern. _He’s putting all his hopes in me. If I can’t unlock him, he might never try again._

“So…Aaron…where would you like to begin?”

Hotch looked slightly panicked. Razz reminded himself that there was no puzzle that didn’t break down to a simple equation. No person who defied analysis once a few, simple building blocks were identified. So, he rephrased the question; pointed it in the direction he believed would reveal the key to Aaron Hotchner.

“If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”

Hotch’s voice was hollow. “Everything. Almost everything. So much…too much…”

Razz’s stomach plunged. He had an almost occult feeling that Aaron wasn’t going to be a simple equation after all.

 


	99. Partridge in a Wary Tree

“Please give me Aaron’s phone, Haley. Don’t make me search for it.”

Haley stared, reminding herself that Dave was a guest in her home.

 _And_ her husband’s best friend. _And_ someone who’d willingly come to her aid a number of times. _But_ …

…also possibly the chief obstacle when it came to rooting Aaron out of the BAU and herding him into a safer, less volatile job, even if it still had to be within his precious Bureau.

She’d already lost the battle to keep Aaron’s work from intruding on them during his convalescence. His phone had come in handy when she conceived the idea to request as much medical leave as possible; a gambit the success of which she still wasn’t sure. Now, as she studied Rossi through narrowed lids, she couldn’t think of any other uses to which the cell might be put. In Haley’s mind, the phone was ammo she’d already fired.

_Besides, Aaron will be home for a while and if I need his list of contacts again, I’ll know where to look for it._

Unable to think of any reason she shouldn’t return the phone, especially considering she was already defeated when it came to keeping FBI matters away from her doorstep, Haley decided she could afford to be gracious. She turned a buttery smile on her guest.

“I don’t deserve threats, Dave. Although…” She gave a sigh worthy of martyrdom. “…I’m sure that’s a method that has its place in your work. All I want to do is shield Aaron from the stress and the unhappiness that he carries inside _because_ of that work.” The look she gave Rossi bordered on disgust. “It’s my place to do what’s best for my husband. It’s _not_ your place to suggest strong-arm tactics when you’re a guest in my home.”

Rossi took a deep breath. He always had to remind himself that his Long Island upbringing of loud voices and powerful demonstrations of both affection and anger were diametrically opposed to the subtler, but perhaps more poisonous arts that characterized the Hotchners’ way of dealing with the world. He bowed his head in a way he imagined was worthy of a Southern gentleman.

“Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.” Rossi sighed. “I wish you could believe that those of us who work with Aaron truly care about him. He’s a lucky man to have support networks both at home…” He again acknowledged Haley with a gracious nod. “… _and_ at work.”

Seeing her eyes harden, Rossi strove to move from confrontation to negotiation. “Haley…why can’t all the people who support your husband be _allowed_ to do so? What is it you feel when one of us, one of his team, cross from his work life into his private life? Even if all it involves is dropping by for a quick word, or calling him? What’s the problem?” His regard was earnest. He honestly wanted to bridge the gap between Hotch’s worlds, while it seemed Haley would rather widen it from fissure into crevasse into canyon into abyss.

“He doesn’t need his team dragging all those memories of violence and hurt and…and…and everything _vile_ that he doesn’t even _dare_ tell _me_ about…He doesn’t need all of you dragging that in here.”

Her voice lowered. It might have been intended as a whisper, but it came off as more of a hiss. “ _You’re_ the one who told me to build him a safe place, Dave. _You’re_ the one who made me feel like a bad wife and a horrible person because my own husband doesn’t feel secure at home with _me_. So when I try to make him a place where he can be away from all the dangerous, ugly things I can only imagine he has to deal with at work, _you’re_ the one who’s making it most difficult! Explain _that_ to _me_!”

Haley leaned back, a slight air of triumph making it hard for Rossi to think her motives were pure. He sensed emerging victorious from the argument and evading blame might matter more than getting to the root of what was best for Hotch. He studied her for a moment. Partly to make her uncomfortable; the trace of smugness he detected irked him. Partly because it hadn’t occurred to him that Haley might not understand what seemed so clear to him. He wasn’t sure if her confusion was genuine.

“When I said Aaron needs a place to be safe, it had nothing whatsoever to do with his work, Haley. Well…,” he hedged, “…not in the way of excluding it, anyway.” Rossi searched for what he hoped were the right words. “He needs to be able to shed all the psychological devices he uses to shield himself. He needs to be able to be weak and scared and…well… _needy_. He needs to be able to be emotionally naked without having to worry about you; about how your opinion of him might change.”

Haley’s eyes blinked in an otherwise blank face.

Rossi wasn’t sure he’d explained himself at all well, or rather, explained what he considered Hotch’s needs to be.

And then, he was sure she still didn’t get it.

“Dave, how can he _not_ feel safe here? I mean, compared to all the other places Aaron’s been throughout his life…where he grew up and the places _you_ take him!...Where his own people hit him or shoot him!...This is the safest place he’s ever known!”

Rossi drew back. He had a feeling a line was about to be crossed. His suspicions about Hotch’s childhood were still unvoiced. He wasn’t sure he wanted them confirmed. At least, not unless the revelation was directly sanctioned by Hotch himself.

And he was almost positive his friend would prefer his past remain concealed; buried beneath years and layers of emotional scar tissue.

And he was _definitely_ positive that whatever Haley knew wasn’t the whole story.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Razz gave Hotch plenty of time to refine his reply; to narrow down the scope of things he would change, things he felt were problematic in his life. When the weary-looking man remained silent, confusion and pain evident in the dark eyes, the therapist gave a helping nudge.

“Let’s go at it from another angle, Aaron. Literally.” He grinned. “I know this sounds like a cliché, but I’d like you to lay down. Answers surface much more easily when you’re relaxed. I’m sure you’ve run into that phenomenon on the job during interviews, interrogations. So… where would you feel comfortable flat on your back?”

He’d expected Hotch to go for the obvious solution: the bedroom. His grin faded a little when the agent moved to the small couch in his den, trailed one hand over the cushions with a disconsolate look on his face, and then settled in, adjusting his long body on a piece of furniture that couldn’t quite accommodate his height.

Razz didn’t comment. Instead, he placed his chair at Hotch’s head, only slightly out of his range of vision. Crossing his legs, he knew his sneakered foot could be seen if the agent shifted his eyes to the side. It was strategic and standard, treading the line between one’s presence being intrusive, but one’s company being comforting. Razz’s smile was wry. He’d always found insouciant ways to label his professor’s teachings. This one he’d called _You’re not alone, but you’re on your own._

He studied the man before him, noting the tension in his neck and shoulders. “Comfortable?”

“Yeah.” Even Hotch didn’t believe his own assurance.

“Alright then. Let’s continue.” The therapist tilted his head, giving him an oblique view of Hotch’s profile without encroaching on the man’s sight of this room that should be familiar, undemanding terrain. “So there are a number of things in your life that trouble you. And you felt this was the time to address them. Did anything specific push you to do this?”

“Well…yes. And no.”

Razz breathed out a puff of air through his nose; a small sound of consternation. His voice became less formal. He dropped his own walls that said this was just another patient damaged by the violence inherent in his work. This was someone Dave Rossi worried about. Cared about.

“Aaron, you don’t need to be cautious with me. You don’t need to choose your words and struggle for pinpoint accuracy. You’re not discussing a case file with a superior.” He leaned forward, placing a hand on Hotch’s shoulder, smoothing a little of the tightness out. “Relax. What you hear yourself saying in your own words is far more important than what I might hear. You’re the one who matters here. Not me. I’m only an echo.”

Razz pushed a little deeper into the muscles. “Relax, son.”

It had been intended as a comforting, paternal endearment. Something most men would have found soothing. But the shoulder beneath Razz’s hand flinched at the word, becoming rock-hard.

The therapist froze. And frowned. And knew where to begin looking for the building blocks that formed the flawed foundation of this particular man.

Then Razz allowed himself a small, private smile. _Just as I thought. Dig down and something unremarkable will be to blame for this man’s pain. We’re all damaged on some level. And now I think I know which one to explore._ He kept his hand on Hotch’s shoulder, trying to break through the tension with warmth and pressure. An unexpected wave of sympathy washed over him.

 _Still… another broken toy soldier…but one who’s turned it all in on himself for God knows how long. And there’s a twisted kind of nobility in him._ He sighed. _And **that** , dark-haired, feral-eyed boy, is one of the reasons I wish you hadn’t gone into the BAU. There’s a gentleness at your core that deserves expression, not the battering it gets from the things you have to witness and do in that line of work. I bet your co-workers think you’re a tough SOB. I bet you cover your pain so well they never suspect it. That empathy inside that the rest of the adjudication board jumped at like a prize is your gift and your curse. And I bet your hard-as-nails veneer is cracking. And maybe people are seeing. And you’re so ashamed you were finally driven to ask for help. Poor broken soldier…_

Out of Hotch’s sight, Razz ducked his head and smiled, drawing on the timeframe of his own formative years. _No, not soldier. Flower child. You would have made a perfect flower child, gentle, sweet Aaron, if you’d been born a decade or so earlier. And if whatever building block  that landed on top of you and crushed you had passed you by._  He gave the still-stiff shoulder a final pat.

 _Now, let’s see if we can’t find your roots. Maybe help you blossom. It’s not too late._ The therapist grimaced. _I hope not, anyway…_


	100. Grousing

Morgan had waddled his way home Saturday night stuffed with Garcia’s comfort-brownies.

The only way he’d avoided being forced to take containers of them with him was to assure Penelope that if he did, Clooney would get into them at some point, and chocolate was poisonous to dogs; a pronouncement that made Garcia’s eyes fill at the thought of a living creature unable to revel in the joys of the cocoa bean. Which resulted in Morgan eating more brownies to assure her they were delicious and there was nothing monstrous about baking things harmful to canines.

If Garcia had comforted Morgan on a gastronomic level, Prentiss had done so on a psychological one. Her glib assurance that Haley was behind any friction he’d perceived when trying to contact Hotch made sense. But as much as he accepted Emily’s theory, and wanted to believe it wholeheartedly, there was a tiny particle of doubt lodged deep in his brain. Like a grain of sand in an oyster, it was beginning to irritate its way into becoming something much bigger. But instead of a pearl, Morgan envisioned awkwardness and avoidance growing between him and his Unit Chief.

So when he rolled out of bed late Sunday morning, he decided to ignore the suggestion that he wait a day and try calling Hotch again once the work week was underway. Sitting on his couch, one arm draped over Clooney’s shoulders, Morgan took a deep breath and pressed the button that would accomplish a speedy connection to his leader’s phone.

_Don’t let Haley answer…Don’t let Haley answer…Don’t let Haley answer…_

Derek tightened his hold, pulling his chocolate-challenged companion closer as he waited for someone to pick up.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi worked to keep his voice eminently reasonable.

“Haley, I can’t speak for all the other places Aaron has lived, and I’m not trying to sit in judgment of where he lives now.” He took a deep breath, leaning in as though being fractionally closer would somehow make his words hit their target. “All I’m saying is that physical space and emotional space are very different animals. You’ve made Aaron a lovely…a _beautiful_ …home. And I envy him having someone who is so vested in his well-being waiting to welcome him with open arms every time he returns from, as you say, those ugly places his job and I take him. All I’m suggesting is a small tweak in the haven that you’ve already made for him.”

Rossi watched one of Haley’s brows rise like a cypher of suspicion. He lowered his voice even more. “His emotional safety doesn’t depend on deflection or concealment. It depends on release.”

His eyes searched hers, seeking signs of comprehension, if not agreement. He wasn’t sure what he saw flickering in the depths, so he elaborated, pushing the explanation closer for her inspection.

“You want to shield him from incoming ugliness….which is wonderful,” he hastened to add. “But maybe you could also find a way to get the ugly things he’s already carrying, the things he’s picked up along the way…out?”

They stared at each other, both considering Dave’s words, until a faint burring sound coming from the vicinity of one of Haley’s pockets made both frown.

Rossi blinked. “Is that Aaron’s phone?”

Haley’d already decided to return the device, but she’d have preferred to give it to her husband. Handing it over to Dave felt as though she’d lost some tiny increment of command over what transpired in her own home. But she couldn’t evade the dark, questioning…or was it accusing?...regard trained on her as the cell buzzed, vibrating where it was trapped between her and the table’s edge. Breaking eye contact, she slipped the phone out of her pocket and set it on the table between them, telling herself that she hadn’t really relinquished the thing to the man, because she hadn’t placed it in his hand.

“Thank you.” Rossi’s soft acknowledgement was an aside as he checked the caller ID. His brows rose. “Excuse me.”

Standing, he moved away, strolling from the kitchen toward the front door for privacy, aware that although Haley wasn’t following, she was listening.

“Morgan.”

A beat of silence, then… “Rossi?” Derek emitted a small gasp; part relief and part surprise. “Jeez, does everyone answer this thing _except_ Hotch?”

Dave couldn’t help chuckling. “Well…seems like his phone got misplaced and went off on a little adventure, but it’ll be back with its rightful owner soon.” A note of concern entered his voice. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Morgan hesitated. “I just wondered how he was doin’…ya know?”

“Y-e-a-h…I know.”

And then Rossi didn’t care if Haley heard or not. He could tell one of Hotch’s team was hurting, wondering how their leader felt inside and out. Wondering what Boss-man was thinking. Needing just a little more reassurance about what had happened in the woods when his finger had tightened on a weapon leveled at a man he admired and even loved.

“Look, Morgan…” Rossi let his voice rise to normal pitch. “Hotch will heal. You know that. As for _how_ all this happened, you also know how his mind works. He’s already clicked through all the variables and data, and come to the conclusion that you did the right thing. And I guarantee he’s not trying to avoid any one of us.” He spared an accusative glance for Haley who’d come to the kitchen door on silent feet and was making no effort to disguise her interest in following the conversation.

“In fact, Hotch’s busy right now, but as soon as he’s done, I’ll have him call you, okay?”

“Sure! Yes! I mean…yeah, that’s okay.”

The relief and eagerness in Morgan’s voice that carried over the connection contributed to Rossi’s forgiving himself for verging on threats earlier to get Hotch’s phone back. “Alright then. He’ll be calling you later today. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Rossi. Really, man.”

While Dave unapologetically and ostentatiously closed Hotch’s phone and slipped it into his own pocket, eyeing Haley the whole time, across town Clooney rejoiced at the change in his master’s mood as they prepared for a nice, long walk.

And maybe they’d even play with pinecones and sticks in the park.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Razz finally gave up hoping to feel the muscles in Hotch’s shoulder ease under his touch.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and resigned himself to the slow bird dance of bringing this man’s relationship with his parents to the fore without making it seem as though he’d already decided where the problems were rooted. The therapist was keenly aware, however, that his time was limited. He also knew that any revelations would only be valuable if they were surrendered by Hotch, not yanked out by force. Razz decided on an oblique approach.

“So…Aaron. You have a really nice set-up here. Beautiful home. Lovely wife. Driving up here with Dave I had a chance to look around. The neighborhood looks like a great place to raise kids. Any plans for that?”

Slowly, deliberately, warily…Hotch turned his head, craning around so he could make eye contact. “Did Dave talk to you about that?” His profiler’s instincts were honed, on the alert for any dissembling.

But Razz looked genuinely perplexed. “N-o-o-o. I made a point of asking him _not_ to tell me anything. We didn’t discuss you, Aaron.” He detected doubt in the steady, questing look. “All Dave told me was that you needed someone to talk to and he thought you’d feel freer if that someone wasn’t connected with your work or your home life. I think he asked me because we’ve worked together before; because I deal with the problems of men and women in law enforcement; and because you’re not a complete stranger to me. I was there when you applied to the BAU. I think Dave hoped that would save some time and make things easier for you.”

The two men studied each other for a few beats. Hotch saw nothing to warrant suspicion. He turned back to his original position.

“I’m sorry. I thought you and Dave might have talked about…things.”

“We didn’t. And I won’t _ever_ unless you say it’s okay.”

Hotch nodded, adjusting himself on the too-short couch. After a few attempts, he gave a gusty sigh, swung his legs around and sat up. He gave the therapist a sheepish glance. “I trust Dave. It’s just I’m used to having some things, you know…private. And…I lied when I said this couch was comfortable.”

Razz’s grin was crooked. “Care to change venue?”

“Yeah. Guest room.”

Hotch led the way to a small room barely furnished with a bed and dresser and chair. It was the room they had discussed turning into a nursery when the time came. _If_ the time came. Razz could see a certain reluctance in the younger man as he did as requested, lying down with a resigned expression.

The therapist drew the chair off to the side and settled in. “Now, where were we?”

“You asked me about children…about family…”

Razz’s brows rose to an optimistic arch. There was a qualitative difference in the FBI agent. He didn’t know if it was changing rooms, or learning that he wasn’t the subject of discussion with Dave, but Hotch seemed more open; finally giving himself permission to talk; maybe hoping that talk might actually help. Because of that, Razz felt he could move a little deeper, a little quicker.

“What are your views on family, Aaron? Do you want one?”

 “I want one. Very much. I’m just not sure I deserve one.”

The therapist’s heart gave an unaccustomed, aching lurch at the answer. “Why wouldn’t you deserve a family?”

“Maybe ‘deserve’ isn’t the right word. I just think I’d screw it up if I had one.” Hotch’s voice grew fainter, as though he were talking to himself more than anyone else. “When we see couples with children, my wife’s face lights up. She’s all smiles and happy expectations. I don’t feel that way.”

Razz lowered his own voice, matching it to Hotch’s, making it less intrusive. “How _do_ you feel?”

“Jealous.” Aaron closed his eyes, embarrassed by the admission.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. You just see couples who are a little ahead of you in the process.”

“No. You don’t understand.” The words cracked with the difficulty Hotch was having getting them out.

“When we see families, I’m jealous of the children.”


	101. Plucked Bare

Razz was glad he had positioned his chair out of Hotch’s field of vision.

Despite initially being taken aback, his brain sped along various paths of reasoning, delivering him to a place where he could see that it made sense for this man to be jealous of happy, thriving children. When combined with the muscular tension he’d felt in Hotch’s shoulder at being called ‘son,’ it bolstered his nascent theory that Aaron’s troubles boiled down to a childhood perceived as abusive.

_As to whether it really **was** , well, some people cling to the idea that their upbringing was terrible when others would consider the reality to have been quite different. But it’s the perception of the individual that matters._

“Why are you jealous, Aaron?”

“Those children know things I never will.” The voice sounded small and lost. And ashamed.

“L-i-k-e…?”

A few beats of silence told Razz that whatever discomfort Hotch might feel at revealing his inner workings was increasing. He was tempted to speak up; tell the man he’d already guessed at the root of his problem, but he restrained himself. The words had to come from the source if they were to accomplish anything at all.

Hotch took in a deep breath that was only slightly shaky. “L-i-k-e…I…I’ll never know what it feels like to be hugged by my father.” There was a pause. Razz knew Aaron was waiting to be judged. He kept quiet. “It’s strange to think all these children will know more than I ever will. Already do.”

“No…not more. They just know _different_ things than you do. And there are ways to make up for what you see as a deficiency.”

Hotch’s head turned where he lay, but he couldn’t quite bring the therapist into his line of sight. “How do you mean? I can’t go back in time.”

“You overwrite it. You look in your _own_ child’s eyes when you hug him.” Razz couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. “And you’ll know. Believe me. You’ll know.”

“You’re a father?”

“A couple times over. Girls. Both grown and on their own. Both worth every minute of doubt and fear and anger and sorrow. You’ll go through it all when it happens to you, but…yeah…it’s worth it.” Razz’s satisfied tone did more to persuade Hotch than the words did. “The most important thing is that in your kid’s eyes, you’ll be the one who knows everything. You’ll be the one she loves more than anyone. And it’s almost a kind of magic, because you’ll _become_ everything. More than you imagined you could ever be. Because your kid will want you to, expect you to. And you’ll love her so much, you’ll just do it. Without question or hesitation. You’ll transform with an ability you never knew you had.”

Quite a long silence passed. Razz let it draw out, knowing Hotch was turning things over in his mind; inspecting and assessing. When he was ready, the Unit Chief’s rumbling baritone held a skeptical note.

“My father wasn’t like that.”

Razz gave a private sigh of relief. _At last. Now we’re getting somewhere._ “I’m sorry, Aaron.” He waited for Hotch to continue.

“So what you say isn’t true for everyone.”

“No. Sadly, no. But…it will be true for you.”

“You can’t know that.”

The therapist gave a low chuckle. “Yes, I can. You forget. I’ve studied you. And even after all the intervening time…all the experiences both in and beyond the BAU…you haven’t changed. At our core, most of us never do. And your core is burning with the same light as when I first encountered you.

“When you love, you give yourself completely. You carry ideals that don’t just define your own behavior, they are a kind of battle standard you carry before you. They are the world you want to create. It’s a place where fathers hug and children know they’re loved.” Razz settled back with a sigh. “It’s a very nice place, springing from a very nice, essential quality deep inside you. Aaron, you’ll be a good father because you’re a good man.”

Hotch’s voice was touched with desperation. “But…but all of us have something deep down; something unspeakable. We’re all capable of terrible things.”

“But we don’t all _do_ them. That’s your job speaking. You think of the bad that people can do first, simply because it’s at the front of your mind. Say what you will, Aaron, but I don’t think you compartmentalize the same way other agents do. I don’t think you walk away from cases. Especially the really bad ones. Am I right?”

“Yes.” It was a shamefaced reply, coming after nearly a minute’s pause while Hotch had tried to step back and view himself dispassionately.

“I think you need to accept that you’re different from the others, Aaron.” Razz could almost feel the anguish squeezing the FBI agent’s stomach into a quivering knot. “And you need to listen to me. _Really_ listen. ‘Different’ doesn’t mean outcast. It doesn’t mean inferior. It means extraordinary.”

The therapist let that sink in before continuing. He felt himself relax, thinking that the crux of this man’s dilemma had been excavated, letting at least a bit of it rise to the surface. It was a respectable thing to have accomplished in this one, brief session.

“So I’m going out on a limb here and guessing as to why all this came to a head right now. You’re thinking of becoming a parent? And you’re conflicted about it because you view your own childhood as unpleasant? You think you have these ‘unspeakable’ things inside you waiting to leap out? With parenthood as the trigger?”

Hotch felt a surge of animosity for such a lukewarm label being applied to what he considered a sucking wound of a childhood. But in an instant, he tamped it down. He was good at tamping things down. Then, he reminded himself why he’d asked Dave for help, for Razz, in the first place. He took a deep breath and tried to define the emotional outbursts that had felled him like internal detonations, throwing him to the ground with the shock waves of their ferocity.

“That’s _part_ of it.”

The beginning of Razz’s self-satisfied complacency for his own professional acumen at having delved into this man and pulled forth the worst of his damage…evaporated. Alert, he sat straighter. “Part? What else is going on, Aaron?”

In a voice rough with tangled feelings, Hotch did his best. “I haven’t talked to anyone about this. Not even…well…not anyone.”

Razz was intent on every nuance, every turn of phrase. _He hasn’t told Dave is what he’s saying. So Dave’s his primary outlet, but he’s torn because whatever ‘it’ is, Aaron thinks telling it might alter Dave’s view of him. Interesting…_

“I…uh…ever since we…Haley and I…decided to start a family, things have been happening.” Hotch’s voice trailed off.

The therapist waited, but after a bit, decided a prompt was in order. “What kinds of things?”

“Things that make me wonder…” Aaron’s swallow was audible. “The thing is…ever since I was a kid, I…I kind of wondered if maybe I should never have been born.” The harsh intake of breath told Razz that _this_ … _this_ was the wound that was soul-deep and still suppurating. He strained to hear what was almost a whisper…

“When you’re a kid and bad things happen, you try to figure out why. And when you can’t, you have to think that maybe y _-you’re_ the thing that’s wrong. Like it’s all a message or…or a punishment to tell you, you shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be at all.”

Razz’s response was one word, filled with sympathy and a heartfelt wish to ease this man’s pain. “A-a-r-o-n…”

But once begun, Hotch was committed to laboring through to the end. It had taken him some time to realize where the connection was; that the storms assaulting him were so similar to ones that had swamped him as a boy. He’d repressed the emotional turmoil along with everything else from that part of his life. Now he was realizing that repression might not be an accurate term. He’d been _ignoring_ them, but the storm clouds still tracked him, looming above him with a darkness that stole his breath and his strength. And his courage, too. Fear had an iron grip on his lungs, making it difficult to push the words out. He’d hardly articulated to _himself_ the things he was now serving up to this virtual stranger. Hotch couldn’t imagine letting anyone he knew, even Haley…even Rossi…see this ugly, frightened, doubtful side of himself.

“The th-thing is, I thought I left all that behind. I mean, for God’s sake, I’m a grown man! But ever since we started trying to have a baby, bad things have been happening more and more. And they’re getting worse; more serious each time.” Hotch closed his eyes, hating this admission, but knowing it was why he’d asked for help; why Razz was here.

“I _know_ it doesn’t make any sense. I _know_ the universe doesn’t send you messages or punish you…but…but…it still feels like something’s trying to impress on me that I shouldn’t be here in the first place…. So I shouldn’t leave anything behind. Not anything that matters, anyway. Like…like a son or daughter…It’s like…like…” Hotch’s voice broke, but recovered. “…like being told I never should have been all over again. Same message. Different delivery system. That’s all” He fell quiet, but Razz could imagine every sinew and fiber of the man was waiting. For censure. For ridicule. For comfort. For some kind of judgment that would likely have a profound effect on how this hidden wound either healed or consumed what was left of him in a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The therapist’s voice was low. “Aaron, you’ve already left a sizeable mark in the world. The ripple effect of every life you save, every criminal you put away; these things are unstoppable. If you weren’t meant to be here and some omniscient power was offended by your presence…if things like that existed…you’d have been removed long before now. If you factor in the type of work you do, then, God knows, there’s been ample opportunity to erase you from the world.

“And being a grown man doesn’t mean you can severe the ropes of the past that tether you to painful experiences. I’ve seen more than my share of men and women still paying homage to hurtful histories. You are not an anomaly, Aaron.”

Hotch felt the burn of incipient tears. _No, not again. Not again…_ He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes, hoping the pressure would squash the debilitating lack of control that he hated from emerging again. He was so immersed in his effort to keep emotion at bay, it came as a shock when a hand stroked the hair back from his forehead.

He welcomed the gesture; it did more to stem the tears than his own hands could.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi and Haley contemplated each other from opposite sides of the kitchen table.

Dave didn’t want to antagonize her, but he still felt something needed to be said about making Hotch feel free to let down his emotional shields in his wife’s presence, and about letting him have access to and letting him _be_ accessible to…his team. However, the look on Haley’s face was anything but inviting.

Since handing over Hotch’s cell, she’d closed down.

Oh, she was still a consummate hostess: Rossi’s cup had been refreshed and he’d even been offered coffee cake in a perfectly sweet, sugary voice. Yet he had the feeling that Haley was like a tiger lounging in the corner of its cage, pulling a cloak of indifference around it. Waiting to be left alone so it could enjoy itself without interference.

 _And that’s okay. She and Aaron **should** be alone to work things out. But…_ He studied the impassive blank sitting across from him. _But I’m still not sure she understands…or maybe she does and she just doesn’t agree._

Rossi took a breath, preparatory to resuming what he was sure Haley considered unwelcome subject matter. When he saw her brows rise and her eyes lighten, focusing on something over his shoulder, he turned in his seat.

Razz was making a slow, pensive way down the stairs. It took the therapist a moment to pull himself from his own thoughts, but when he saw Dave and Haley, he flashed a professionally noncommittal smile and joined them, albeit choosing to stand rather than take a seat.

“Aaron?” Haley’s eyes pinned Razz down, broadcasting her desire to run upstairs to make sure her husband hadn’t been worsened by being left alone with this stranger. But she would never abandon guests in her home. She wanted to usher them out the door, and then sprint to Hotch.

“He’s resting.” The therapist looked down at Dave. “Time for us to leave these people to their Sunday?”

Rossi took the broad hint, pushing his chair back. Standing, he gave Haley an apologetic look. “I need to see Aaron for just a second first. Be right back.”

As he headed toward the stairs, he still had the impression of a tiger lounging, eyeing an unwelcome presence that was putting a crimp in its normal routine.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It took Rossi a moment to find Hotch in the guest room.

When he did, he paused, taking in the haggard pallor of the figure lying on the bed, that made him think of a limp dishrag rather than an FBI agent on the mend.

“Hey.” Hotch’s eyes opened, but the look in them was weary, troubled.

“Hey, Dave.”

Rossi reached into his pocket. When he withdrew his hand, it held Hotch’s long-lost phone. He placed it on his friend’s chest, giving it a little tap. “Morgan’s been trying to reach you. I told him you’d call him later.”

Hotch closed his eyes again, resting one forearm across them. “Okay. Sure.”

“You wanna talk?” Rossi patted his friend’s flank, pushing him aside to make space so he could sit down on the mattress edge.

“I’m all talked out, Dave.”

The older man studied what he could see of the younger’s face. His voice lowered. “You okay? Was this a mistake for me to bring Razz here?”

“Mistake…” Hotch’s lips quirked upward in a mirthless grimace. “No. I’m the only one allowed to feel like a mistake today. My turf. My rule.” He moved his arm back to his side and met Rossi’s eyes. “I’m glad you brought him, but I’m a little wrung out.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah…” Hotch sighed, closing his eyes again. “Haley.”

Rossi nodded. "Okay. Call me if you need me." He stood and crossed the room, giving the Unit Chief a last look from the doorway. "Don't forget to call Morgan."

As he plodded down the stairs, Dave saw Hotch's wife tracking his progress from the front hallway where she stood with Razz, ready to see her guests out like any proper hostess. He hoped she would take some of their earlier discussion to heart, but, looking at her carefully composed features, he couldn't help thinking of that tiger again. Patient. Watchful.

Waiting for the spectators to leave so the real business of co-existing in a cage could begin.


	102. Bird Seed

Rossi and Razz walked to the car in silence.

It wasn’t until they were halfway back to Dave’s mansion that either spoke. The therapist’s voice, emerging from thoughts preoccupied with Hotch, was subdued.

“I can’t discuss him with you, Dave.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. But you want to.”

Rossi was quiet for a few miles. Then… “Just tell me he’ll be alright. And tell me what I can do to help him.”

When the therapist didn’t reply immediately, Dave took it as a sign that he was mulling things over. It reassured him that when words did come, they wouldn’t be empty, glib reassurances.

“None of us are really ‘alright.’ It’s human nature and unavoidable during the course of a lifetime to be a little ‘al-wrong.’ But he’ll be better, I think. I hope.” A few more beats fell before Razz continued. “If it’s okay with you, though, I’d like some of the gaps filled in. What’s been happening to that man for the last few months? I want details, not broad brushstrokes.”

Rossi chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Hotch’s a very private person. Some of the pressure forcing its way up now is because some of us…well, a _lot_ of us…didn’t respect that.” He gave his passenger a sidelong look. “I’ll have to ask him if it’s okay to talk about those things with you.”

“Understood.” Razz nodded. “And approved. It’s better to be cautious. I think he showed an uncommon amount of trust in pushing himself to open up to me. I don’t want to abuse that.”

Rossi pulled into his spacious, landscaped driveway. “I’ll call him once we’re inside.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

What crept up the stairs toward Hotch was feline and primal.

It wanted to be sure its mate was unharmed. It wanted to snuggle down and erase the scent of strangers with its own touch. It was glad when it found whatever had transpired with the strangers hadn’t been done in its main lair, the master bedroom. It went in search of its mate and prey.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Aaron? Sweetheart? Ohhhh…Aaron…”

Haley found Hotch still on his back in the guest room, lying on top of the bedspread. His forearm was crossed over his eyes again as though to block out the world, but she knew that didn’t include her.

She slid down next to him, lying on her side; one elbow propping her up so she could hover over him, inspect him. She noted the traces of dried salt on his lean cheeks and felt anger well up inside her.

“Ohhhh…Aaron.” She rubbed a thumb over one tear track. When it failed to erase the marking completely, she bent and licked the rest away.

Hotch moved his arm, opening his eyes to fix his wife with a mournful look. She wasn’t sure what he was seeking when he searched her face.

“Aaron, what did he do to you?” It was a whisper nuzzled into the dark hair behind his ear.

“N-nothing.” Hotch shivered as her nose found the spot that was one of their secrets. He licked dry lips and took a steadying breath. “Haley, what do you know about my past? Before we met?”

She pressed a kiss against his temple, buying time to form an answer. “Sweetheart, we met in high school. There wasn’t that much of a past at that point for either of us.”

He pulled back from her nuzzling, trying to see her eyes. “But _what_ do you know?”

Sighing, Haley stopped moving, choosing instead to rest her forehead against his hair. “Alright. I know your father was a mean man, whom most of the town disliked. I know he was strict with his family.” She laid an arm across her husband’s chest, pulling him slightly closer. “I know he hit you sometimes.”

She could feel the increase in his respiration; could hear the roughening of his voice.

“How did you find out? Who did you talk to?”

“I asked my mother, Aaron. That’s all she said, except that was part of why my parents didn’t approve of our marriage at first.” Haley resumed burrowing behind Hotch’s ear, and down along the slender muscles of his neck. “I’m glad I didn’t listen to them.” She felt the labored movement of his swallowing.

“Haley, he was more than just mean.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I-I’m…” An involuntary shudder rippled over him as she progressed down his neck. “…I’m a mess.”

“ _My_ mess.”

“I’m serious, Haley. I’m not…not _right_.”

“ _My_ ‘not right.’”

“I need…something.”

“Mine.”

“H-Haley…” Hotch was finding it increasingly difficult to think. He gave a small whimper.

She pulled back from savoring his neck. “Aaron…?” Levering herself above him, she met his eyes. Saw them broadcasting some hidden anguish that made no sense to her. “Sweetheart? What is it? _What_ do you need? Can you tell me?”

“I’m not sure.”

Rossi’s words, so resented at the time, came back to Haley. With only her man’s sad uncertainty for company, she found it much easier to accept Dave’s statements and even grant them added credence. _Make him a safe place to release emotion he thinks he needs to hide._

“Aaron, you know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” One level of her mind was busy appreciating the fine construction of his jaw, his nose… _His nostrils are absolutely symmetrical…_ “Maybe if you told me more…maybe you’d feel better.” She nestled down beside him. “No one can hurt you when you’re with me. I’d destroy anyone who tried.”

The steely cold that entered her voice on that last made Hotch blink and catch his breath. It forced him to consider that his gentle, proper wife just might be capable of unfettered rage if someone she loved was threatened.

 _Deep down we’re all capable of unspeakable things…_ He had uttered that dreadful observation to Razz, but what he heard from Haley was not just the capability, but an acceptance that was completely natural. It didn’t trouble this petite woman at all to claim the potential for violence. What Hotch saw as repugnant, occupied a casual place in his wife’s world.

He turned his head, looking down at the top of hers, cuddled against his side. _But she can’t know what she’s really saying. She’s never been faced with having to kill or be killed. She’s never looked at death that way._ Yet the ring of certainty in Haley’s voice was undeniable. Hotch swallowed again in a throat suddenly parched.

“My father wasn’t just mean, Haley. He was a-abusive.” He felt her tense against him. “He…he beat me. All the time.”

In a moment of silence, Hotch held his breath, unable to imagine his wife’s response to finding out the man she’d married was not the ambitious, trophy-creature she’d been led to believe with all the fine education, sharp suits, and career advancements. He felt her rise once more to her elbow, scooting higher so she could look down on him, almost nose to nose. He couldn’t read what was in her eyes. They were too close.

“Then it’s a good thing he’s dead.” The flat, unapologetic tone would have alarmed Hotch if the gentlest of kisses hadn’t accompanied Haley’s words. When she met his eyes again, Aaron recognized the look in them; the mischievous, challenging look that had been making an appearance more frequently. Ever since they’d first unbalanced that little table in the hallway.

“Haley…I don’t know if…if…”

“Does your side hurt?” Her hand pulled the hem of Hotch’s t-shirt up. “Can I get you one of those pain pills from our bedroom?”

“No…it’s not that bad.”

“How does this feel? Does it hurt?” She touched the bandage, tracing a feather-light path.

“N-no.”

“What about…this?” Her hand settled, palm flat against his taut stomach, pressing. Haley’s lips quirked upward; she loved the way Aaron’s breathing had already begun to roughen.

“And this? Is this okay?” Her hand moved; fingers dancing along his hipbones.

Hotch was having trouble maintaining a train of thought. The dull ache of his gunshot wound was making a rapid retreat. It was being overwritten by a wealth of other, more insistent sensations.

_Overwritten…_

The word was a trigger, springing from his discussion with Razz. The therapist had said some of the past would be overwritten; that having a child’s expectations and trust thrust upon you…

 _…thrust…_ Hotch panted…

…had an almost magical effect; a transformation that could make you more than the poor sum of your parts…and...

_…and…uh…_

…and then Hotch’s thought processes stumbled, fell to their knees, and shut down completely, while Haley enacted a magic all her own.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Unobserved, Hotch’s phone slid to the carpet where it vibrated anonymously.

Across town, Rossi frowned at his cell, wondering if Haley had deprived Aaron of the ability to communicate with his team once again. Shrugging, he closed the connection and gave Razz a wary look.

“I’ll try again later. And if he doesn’t answer, I’ll go back and check on him.”

Razz nodded. “He looked a little wasted when we were done. Probably getting some rest.”

“Yeah. Probably .” Rossi sighed. “But he’s supposed to call Morgan, the teammate who shot him, later. He needs that phone for both their sakes.”

“Relax, Dave.” Razz’s grin was easy. “Give him an hour. Whatever he’s doing…nap, or cleaning up, or…whatever…he should be done by then.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

In the Hotchner household, magic was indeed occurring.

But it would be weeks before Haley was sure.


	103. Limp as a Capon

Hotch wasn’t sure what to call the condition he was in.

And since he was only mildly curious to define it, he didn’t try too hard to come up with a label. He felt boneless and warm. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t have enough energy to merit saying he was ‘reveling’ in this limp state. More like lolling in it.

Eventually he opened his eyes and turned his head. There was ample evidence that Haley had been present in the rumpled bedding, but she was gone now. Hotch might have stayed in this pleasurable torpor, but his side began to protest how his body had been used, throbbing with an increasing ache.

Sighing, he edged himself to a sitting position. Head hanging, he contemplated the disheveled heap of his clothing on the carpet alongside the bed. Haley’s dexterity in removing every stitch without the slightest clumsiness, or hesitation, or loss of momentum was one of those talents he wondered if all women possessed. He hadn’t been with enough of them to know. But, on second thought, it seemed to be something his wife had acquired only lately.

He was considering whether or not to put everything back on, when the lump of navy blue that was his boxers began to tremble on their own. For a moment Hotch’s eyes widened…until he realized it was his phone lying beneath them, vibrating, making the fabric move.

With a grunt, he bent over, one hand on his side in an effort to stabilize the injury. He palmed the cell and scooted back to a more comfortable position before answering without checking ID.

“Hotchner.”

“It’s me, Aaron.”

Hotch sat up a little straighter. “Dave. What’s up?”

“Just checking on you. I called earlier, but you didn’t pick up, so…you know…I wanted to be sure you still had your phone…you know…”

“Oh…uh…Haley and I were…uh…busy.”

A beat of silence fell.

“Really?…Well…” Rossi took a moment to consider. “So you’re feeling a little better than when I left you, I take it.”

Hotch felt a warm flush of embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to give anything away about what he and his wife had been doing. He was just caught off balance. And he didn’t like talking on the phone naked. And he was beginning to feel the wash of post-sex fatigue more deeply, making it necessary to exert effort to guard his words. He cleared his throat.

“I’m okay.” The Unit Chief’s logy mind struggled for a way to change the conversation’s direction. “Thanks for bringing Ben…uh, Razz…to talk to me, Dave.”

Rossi recognized the tactic…and allowed it. “You’re welcome. A-n-d that’s part of why I’m calling you now, Aaron. Razz was wondering about things you’ve been through recently…over the last several months. I know we overstepped our bounds with you, so this time I’m asking: is it okay if I tell him what’s been going on? You know, with the maybe-baby and the cases and all that stuff?”

Hotch frowned, trying to extract his brain from the feeling of being dragged down into a sea of molasses. Rossi waited, giving him all the time he needed. “Is Razz there? Can I talk to him?”

“Sure.”

Hotch heard footsteps and imagined Dave crossing the marble floor of his foyer. He heard brief, mumbled discussion and then, a new voice came on the line.

“Aaron? It’s Razz. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” Hotch took a deep breath that sounded weary to the therapist. “I wanted to thank you again for coming to help us out. I guess you’ll meet the team tomorrow, but I want to be sure you know how much I appreciate this.”

Razz had almost forgotten the subterfuge of using the team to camouflage his session with Hotch. He was nothing, if not quick on his mental feet, though. “You’re very welcome, Aaron. I’m glad to help out. But…uh…I did ask Dave if he’d let me in on some of what you and your team have been through recently. _Is_ that okay with you?”

Hotch tried to apply the cognitive processes that usually served him so well at work. But he was too tired, drained, sapped to run through multiple scenarios, permutations of possible consequences springing from all the variables of the missteps and pitfalls of the last several months. His brain stuttered and stumbled and faltered and…stopped. When thought failed, he decided to go with his gut. He felt he could trust Rossi’s friend. The fact that he was being asked for permission this time before the door to his privacy was opened made him feel that trust was valid. And if it helped the team for Rossi to discuss things, their leader would bite the bullet and go along.

“Sure. I don’t mind if you guys talk…but…”

Razz heard the temporizing note, and waited.

“…but I don’t want anyone to know about…about…you know…when I was growing up.” Hotch let a small, ragged breath escape. “Please don’t tell Dave about that.”

The therapist’s voice lowered “Aaron, hold on a minute.”

The sound of footsteps carried over the connection. Hotch heard a door close and knew Razz had moved out of Rossi’s hearing. When the therapist returned, he spoke in a confidential tone.

“It’s just you and me now, Aaron. How are you doing really? No rote response of ‘I’m fine,’ please.”

“I’m…” Hotch had been about to use his standard ‘okay’ line, but caught himself in time. “I’m tired. And my side hurts.”

When it was clear no more would be offered, Razz responded. “I know you’re an expert at human reactions and behaviors, Aaron. But this is different. This time it’s _you_ under the microscope. I also know you’re adept at deflecting attention. You don’t  _want_ people noticing you.” Hotch could hear an almost chuckle underlying the next. “Well, too bad, buddy. You’ve been noticed. That’s what happens when you run into those pesky types who care about you and are gonna stand by you no matter how hard you try to keep them at arm’s length.

“Face it, Aaron. You’re loved. And whether you think you deserve it or not, I’m afraid it’s a life sentence. Get used to it.” Razz paused, letting the concept of affection he could rely on sink into Hotch. When the therapist resumed, his voice had lowered again, communicating his respect for this man’s privacy. “As for your childhood, that’s between you and me. The only way Dave or _any_ one will find out is if you tell them. But, I will say this: you’re acting as though you’re ashamed of being victimized. I understand. If you profile yourself, you will, too. Still, that’s an unwarranted reaction. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing. I know you’re not ready to accept that on an emotional level. But the words needed to be said so you can store them away for later, when maybe you _will_ be ready.

“As for what Dave and I will discuss, I’ll speak only of qualitative characteristics; not specific incidents. Mostly, I’ll be listening. Dave will do the talking. Understand?”

“Y-yes.” Hotch sounded a little overwhelmed, but steadier than when the conversation had begun. “Doctor…Razz…Thank you.”

“Forget it. Now…” A certain amount of levity replaced what had been a grave tone. “…get some rest and take something for the pain. That’s an order. One will help you do the other. Got it, young man?”

“I’m not that young.”

“Part of you is. Look deep. You’ll see it.” A businesslike attitude surfaced. “Okay. You wanna talk to Dave again? Or you had enough of that old busybody?”

“I think you might have that backwards; he’s probably had enough of _me_.” Hotch sounded lighter now that he knew his boundaries would be respected.

“The old fraud loves you. I’ll tell him you said goodbye then. Take care of yourself, Aaron.”

Razz disconnected, leaving Hotch feeling a little breathless. Being told someone loved him, even if he already knew it in his heart…having it tossed out so casually…wasn’t something he was used to.

He set his phone to the side and began the laborious task of retrieving his clothes from the floor. Before he’d done more than lean over, hoping to snag his boxers, a light touch from a feminine hand laid on top of his, stopped him.

Hotch looked up into Haley’s grave eyes.

“Sweetheart, you’ve had enough exercise for one day.” She pushed him upright, pressing a kiss onto his hair. “If you want, I’ll help you dress, but I’m thinking we should just move you to our room and let you finally get some rest.” She closed her eyes, breathing in the warm, male scent that could set her heart racing. “I put a chicken in the oven. S-o-o-o…why don’t you sleep for a couple hours and then I’ll bring you dinner? Sound good?”

It really did, but just as Hotch was on the verge of acquiescing, his eye fell on the phone, reminding him of something he needed to do.

“Sounds great, but can you give me a couple minutes? Gotta make a phone call.” He reached for the cell, oblivious to the disappointed look in his wife’s eyes.

As Haley began picking up the garments she’d maneuvered off Aaron’s body with such careful skill, she listened to him place his call.

“Morgan? Rossi said you wanted to talk to me. What’s up?”

Haley’s eyes narrowed to cold slits.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Razz returned to the kitchen where he’d abandoned Rossi in the name of granting Hotch privacy.

Dave looked up from where he stood, sorting through a stack of mail. “Everything squared away?”

“I’d say so. You can talk to me, but there are some things Aaron would like me to safeguard for the time being.”

Rossi nodded. His heart ached for his friend. He wished he could sit Hotch down and make him understand what they both knew about the survivors of child abuse. But too much else was going on in the younger man’s life for this to be the right time to lower his shields that abruptly. Dave’s sigh was deep.

“I think I already know some of his secrets, but we’ll avoid that area for now.” He glanced up to see Razz’s inquisitive look, brows raised. “I’m thinking he had a rough time growing up, but let’s not talk about it, if that’s off limits.”

Razz nodded. “There’s plenty of other stuff to talk about.” He pulled up a stool to the island in the middle of Rossi’s state-of-the-art kitchen. “You wanna know what crossed my mind when I first met your Aaron? What my battle standard was for keeping him out of the BAU?”

“What?”

“It surfaced again when I was with him this afternoon. Came raging back, in fact.” Razz gazed out the window onto the peaceful, manicured grounds. “It’s a quote from Ernest Hemingway.”

A grin stretched Rossi’s lips. “Papa Hemingway. I bet I know which one.” The two men’s eyes met. “The one about what’s inside the ‘best people?’”

Razz matched his host’s grin, albeit both were edged with sadness. “That’s the one. Hemingway said ‘The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.’”

Rossi nodded. “That’s Aaron.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Well, then.” Dave nodded in the direction of his den where a fully stocked bar awaited. “Let’s talk. Maybe we can figure out how to heal his wounds.”

Stretching, the therapist stood, “And maybe somewhere along the way we can figure out how to keep him from being destroyed, too.”


	104. Killdeer Strategy

“You wanted to talk to me, Morgan?”

Several levels of reaction sprang into play as Hotch made the call.

The Unit Chief would have preferred to be dressed, properly decked out in crisp, official garb. But he was naked except for the bandage taped to his side; a visceral souvenir from the man on the other end of the line.

He tried to keep discomfort at his state of undress from his voice.

Despite being weary in mind and body and heart, Hotch was still aware that he would be sidelined for a week. If his second-in-command needed support or instruction, he had to pull himself together enough to provide it.

He struggled to sound alert and competent.

No matter the trust and commitment between the two men, Hotch was also victim to his instinctive desire to demonstrate that he was still and ever the alpha of the team, and no amount of mandatory medical leave would change that.

He sat straighter, breathed deeper, and imagined injecting power and authority into every word.

Finally, Haley’s presence as she collected his clothing from the floor, smoothing and folding each item, reminded Hotch of how unwelcome she considered these intrusions from the office.

He tried to keep things succinct and brief for his wife’s sake.

“Morgan?”

On the other end, Derek gave his phone a concerned glance. _Boss-man sounds like he just got caught napping during a budget meeting. Sounds…messed up. Jeez. **I** did this to him._

“Yeah. I’m here, Hotch.” Morgan felt a small, hollow place open up inside himself and knew it was how he’d feel if they ever lost their Unit Chief for good. _And just imagine if it had happened at my hand!_ When he realized he should say something, he hated the momentary crack in his own voice. “I…I just wanted to check on you. See how you were doin’, man. See if you needed anything.” He paused. “You know.”

Hotch did.

Every weakened sinew of him thrummed in sympathy with the regret and guilt he still heard in his subordinate’s words. Like the leader he was, hearing someone’s need called forth strength from depths Hotch didn’t consciously acknowledge. They were emergency resources that surfaced with the reliability of something as involuntary, but as necessary as a heartbeat.

Hotch’s voice, still fatigued, steadied nonetheless. “I’m fine, Morgan. Maybe you should come see for yourself. Why don’t you drop by? Just for a few minutes. We can talk about what you’ll need to do next week while I’m out.”

On the fringes of his peripheral vision, Aaron saw Haley straighten, whirling to face him, hands still cradling his discarded clothing, face awash in disbelief.

“I’d like that, but… You sure, man?”

The relief in Morgan’s voice told Hotch it was the right thing to do.

“Yes. Come on over. I’m sure.”

Yet the look in Haley’s eyes made Aaron anything _but_ sure…

 

xxxxxxx

 

“So…” Rossi tried to muffle an undignified Scotch-burp. “…that’s what’s been going on in the strange, unplugged world of Aaron Hotchner.”

For a moment Razz didn’t blink; eyes fixed on the mental images his host’s words had wrought, inspecting and weighing them.

The prolonged silence garnered a sidelong glance from Rossi. “And that’s just the last several months, Ben.” He was taking a perverse pride in the sheer amount of misfortune attending Hotch; it was a warped form of one-upmanship. _My guys are worse off than your guys…_

At last Razz blew out a long, slow half-whistle. “Dave, that man’s life is a minefield! If I’d known back when we were adjudicating BAU candidates that even half of what you’ve just told me would happen…I think I would’ve hogtied that boy and hidden him away in a cave somewhere until the application deadline had passed.”

Rossi shook his head. “Wouldn’t have done any good. You’re too easy to profile. Bleeding heart. Fringe left-wing politics. Nah…Would’ve had you stashed away for kidnapping in a federally funded bed-and-breakfast…the kind with barbed wire and bars…in plenty of time for our Aaron to take his place on the team. Me…Jason Gideon…Max Ryan…we would’ve rescued him. We all wanted him. And don’t forget: _he_ wanted it, too.”

Razz fixed a cynical eye on his friend. “Seems to me, Dave, that’s the arrogance of fine liquor speaking; the kind only fat-cat, government lackeys can afford…” The therapist raised one adversarial brow, baiting his host.

Rossi’s response was a rude cross between a Bronx cheer and a snicker; something he’d perfected in adolescence for use on just such occasions. “We both know Hotch would’ve found his way to the BAU or something similar on his own. Neither of us could have made that much difference in his natural abilities finding their own ground.”

Razz gave a defeated sigh, fueled by some of Rossi’s fat-cat Scotch. “But at what cost, Dave? He’s one of those souls who imprints easily. He carries away little touches from each case. They accumulate.” He shrugged. “Eventually, they’ll bury him. So why does he do this kind of work?”

Rossi peered at his friend over the rim of his glass. “ _You’re_ asking _me_?” When his stare was returned, Dave gave a sad smile. “Maybe Hotch loves his fellow man. Maybe he wants to be part of making a better world.”

This time Razz emitted a sound that was eloquent, but not quite on a par with the one his host had made earlier. “N-o-o-o. He’s not that down-to-earth. He’s in love with an ideal, not his fellow man. Aaron has no moderation in his soul. And his internal definitions are all screwed up.”

Dave chuckled. “Is that the medical terminology you got from all that fancy education? ‘Screwed up?’”

“Well, they are… _he_ is.”

“Y-e-a-h.” Rossi swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. “I picked up on some of that myself.”

“Really?” Both men sensed either a moment of rare total agreement, or a satisfying debate in the offing. “Which one jumped out at you?”

“The difference between love and strength. I think his wires got crossed on those somewhere along the way. If someone dominates him…tries to control him, he justifies it as love. Like punishing him and telling him you’re doing it because you love him.”

“Agreed. But, since those distinctions are usually formed in childhood, we can’t go there. I promised we wouldn’t. And, unlike the shady denizens of Uncle Sam’s law enforcement agencies, I hold promises sacred.”

Rossi sputtered into his glass. “Oh, come on! Are you saying you’ve never broken a promise, Razz?”

“No. I’m saying I don’t do it as part of my work.” The therapist lifted his nose high in a mock display of superiority, but he couldn’t maintain the pose for long. “Why is it so much fun to push your buttons, Dave? Some days at work I’d give almost anything to have you there to kick around.”

Rossi’s smile was smug. “Because you need an outlet. You’re one of those people who’s ill-suited for his job. But for some damn reason you keep at it. Kind of like that man we’re discussing who’s committed to an ideal rather than the reality of the human animal…you know?” His voice lowered as though he were talking to himself. “You’d think a hot-shot psychologist would know that…”

“I do see a lot of myself in Aaron. Maybe I want to help him because subconsciously I’m helping myself.” Razz had been slouching in his chair; now, he pulled himself straighter. “But enough fun and games. We can snipe at each other some other time. So…emotions have been pouring out against Aaron’s will at inopportune times and places. Correct?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And the latest incident was the most physically and emotionally traumatic for him and for the teammate who shot him?”

“Morgan. Derek Morgan.”

Razz sighed. “Well, I was planning on being back in my own office late tomorrow. But…” He smiled at the hopeful look in Rossi’s eyes. “…I think I’d like to take a look at your team after all. Get a feel for the general balance of the group. And maybe touch bases with Aaron again before I leave…. _If_ your dog will agree to let me use his blanket for an additional night.”

Rossi pursed his lips, considering. “I think Mudge can be persuaded.”

Both men settled into companionable silence until Dave broke it. “So, do you think you can help Aaron? In the short time you have with him?”

“Well…I can give him some tools to use that might help.”

“L-i-k-e…?”

Razz squinted at his friend. “No laughter at my expense. And no cracks about left-wing, hippie fringe elements…but…I’d like him to learn about meditation.”

Dave didn’t laugh. He was hard-pressed to hold back some irreverent comments about lava lights and love beads. But he didn’t laugh. He knew enough about the power of the mind to guess at where the therapist hoped to take Hotch. It meshed with his own attempts to communicate to Haley about what her husband needed.

“You want to teach him to make a safe place inside his own mind.” It was statement, not question.

“Yes. He needs to be in control of it. That man, with his peculiar emotional and mental structure, shouldn’t be reliant on anyone else to feel safe. He needs a method he can carry with him and activate at will.”

“That’s a big order.”

The therapist nodded. “It’ll take work, but if he can do it…can become adept…you have no idea how many of those wounds he’s suffering will begin to heal.” Razz turned earnest regard on Rossi. “It’s not a cure-all, but it’s a start.”

Their eyes met; their own differences put to rest before the greater cause of helping a man each valued.

Rossi, in part for what Hotch brought to the Bureau, for all the good he did and all the good he deserved.

Razz, for what he imagined Aaron could do beyond his job. _Work is a passing episode in a man’s life. The more outside involvement that boy has, the better he’ll be able to survive what that job dumps on him. He **needs** to be a father. It’ll give him perspective. It’ll very probably save him._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Sweetheart, you can’t be serious! You expect me to welcome that…that…” Haley gulped air, trying to control the turmoil roiling inside her. “…the man who _shot_ you!...into my home?!? Seriously?”

“ _Our_ …home.” Hotch was making a slow way toward the master bedroom, intending to dress as best he could, short of putting on an actual suit and tie. “ _Our_ home… _my_ friend.”

“But…” She began to protest, but the glint in her husband’s eye made the breath catch in her throat. Haley knew the signs; knew when to pull back. She also knew her way around Hotch. Direct confrontation on this issue would get her precisely nowhere. She regrouped, sliding to his side, taking his arm and lending warm, wifely support as she helped him down the hallway.

“I’m only concerned for your health, Aaron. You have to admit, since you’ve been back, you’ve hardly rested at all, and barely eaten a thing.” She nudged him, resting her head against his shoulder and upsetting his fragile balance just enough so that he _had_ to lean on her more…if only for a moment.

“No rest? Hmmmm…” A lilt of humor ran through Hotch’s voice. “So, what we were doing in the guest room was… _resting?_ ”

Haley’s gasp of mock outrage made him smile. She gave him a gentle, reproving shake. “That’s _different_! Besides, it relaxed you, didn’t it?” She snuggled closer, adopting the tone of a pouting child. “And here I had such a nice evening planned! A little nap, then I’d bring dinner up and we’d picnic on the bedspread, and talk until you were sleepy again.” She dropped to a whisper. “Remember when we used to do things like that? Had _time_ for things like that? For each other? Remember?”

They had reached their bedroom and Hotch showed no signs of slowing or letting himself be redirected.

“We’ll have time later in the week, Haley. If you want me to relax while I’m forced to be a bystander to my own team, you’ll have to let me talk to Morgan and make sure he’s fine with everything he’ll be taking over while I’m gone. Now…” He turned pleading eyes on her. “…please be civil to Morgan when he gets here, and…help me get dressed?”

Haley could feel the slight tremor of fatigue running through the bicep she was clutching. She searched Hotch’s face and decided this was one battle for which she wouldn’t be able to claim a decisive victory. So she’d have to settle for a compromise of sorts. Skilled in the arts of subtle manipulation and of masterful presentation, her agile mind took a different turn.

“Of course, I’ll help you, but…I really do want you to take it easy, Sweetheart. So…what if we get you into a fresh t-shirt and boxers and you stay up here and rest until Mr. Morgan arrives? _And_ …” She held up a finger to stave off objection. “…in exchange, I’ll be very cordial to your friend, show him up here, and leave you two to talk alone? Deal?”

Hotch felt himself fading. He didn’t know how much longer he could argue and still have enough energy left over to have an effective meeting with Morgan. With a deep sigh, he let Haley sit him on the edge of the mattress. “Okay. Deal. Please be nice to him, Haley. He thought he was saving my life. You should be thanking him.”

“Shhhhh….Let’s get you into some fresh underwear and then into bed.”

_And when Mr. Morgan sees you’re bedridden and exhausted and pale…I’ll make sure he knows…in the nicest way…that it’s **his** fault._


	105. A Good Egg

It didn’t take Haley long to put Hotch to bed, extracting a promise that he’d rest until Morgan arrived.

She had time to check on dinner and warm a soft, fleecy blanket in the clothes dryer. Bringing it upstairs, she tucked it around her husband, watching the therapeutic heat seep into him, relaxing already weary muscles even more. By the time she had finished fussing, Hotch’s heavy-lidded eyes were hard put to stay open.

“Rest, Sweetheart.” She pressed a soft kiss over each eye, helping them close. “I love you,” she hummed into his ear. “I’ll bring Mr. Morgan up, but rest…rest…until then.”

By the time Haley left the room, Hotch’s breathing was already slowing into a deep, regular rhythm.  

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan stood outside on the Hotchner’s front stoop, holding his phone.

He was tempted to call Hotch and let him know he was ‘almost there’ in the hope that the Unit Chief would have time to make it to the door instead of leaving that duty to his wife. Morgan grimaced and slid the cell back into his pocket.

_Jeez. Man up already! She’s a tiny, little woman. And if Hotch married her, she must be pretty special. And you shot her husband, for Chrissake! Wha’d’you expect? For her to greet you with open arms? Get a grip and ring the bell!_

Morgan got a grip and rang the bell.

His heart sank a little as he heard footsteps approaching. They were decidedly too light and quick to be Hotch’s. When the door swung open, he was braced for anything from an Arctic chill to a lava flow of anger. The sweet half-smile that didn’t reach Haley’s eyes was a bit unexpected, however.

“Mr. Morgan. Won’t you come in?” The lady of the house stepped back, granting access to her home, one hand performing a gracious sweep of invitation.

Derek stepped over the threshold, trying not to look too big or too powerful or, too, well… _intrusive_. “Thank you, Mrs. Hotchner. I’m sorry to bother you. I just need to see Hotch for a minute. I won’t stay long.”

“Oh, good.” Haley’s voice dropped to a confidential timbre. “He’s not up for much, I’m afraid. He’s always tired after a case, but _this_ one…Well, I think this is the worst I’ve seen him. It just…just…” She almost succeeded in keeping her words steady. Almost. But the quaver of suppressed emotion leaked out around the edges. Her high school drama coach would have been proud. “…it just _hurts_ to see him like this.”

Morgan’s dread increased with each slow step deeper into the Hotchner household. “Does he need a doctor? I could call someone or take him in…?”

“Oh, no, no, no…No…” Haley mastered herself. “Not like that. It’s not the wound…the _gunshot_ wound that’s the worst part, although that’s bad enough. It’s…I don’t know how to describe it, Mr. Morgan.” But then, she did. “It’s as though someone cut the heart out of him. I don’t know…it reminds me of myself once when a friend, someone I relied on and trusted…you know?...betrayed me, and how much it hurt.” She turned liquid eyes on Morgan’s devastated visage. “You know? Like that. Like he’s hurt so much deeper than just his body.”

Morgan’s breathing shallowed. His mouth went dry. He was no fool, and a profiler to boot. He knew this was for his benefit. Or rather, detriment. It hurt to feel so much animosity leveled at him. He had to remind himself that _Hotch_ had invited him over. _Hotch_ could have limited himself to the phone call, but _Hotch_ wanted to see him. Still…Boss-man _had_ sounded odd when they spoke.

Wavering between dread and doubt, Morgan trailed after Haley as she approached the staircase.

When a timer shrilled from the direction of the kitchen, the agent jumped. He hadn’t been aware he was so on edge. But it served to distract Haley. She didn’t want her perfect dinner to suffer, so with a small, resigned sigh, she waved Morgan up the stairs as she hurried to tend whatever dish required attention.

“Excuse me. I was going to try to get Aaron to eat something…you know…no matter _how_ upset he is and how hard he’s trying to hide it.” It was a last arrow aimed at her unwelcome visitor.

Morgan was glad to have something else claim Haley’s focus. “No problem. Mind if I go up?”

Of course she did, but she thought she’d made her point. And she expected this troublesome agent to come right back down. She was sure Aaron was fast asleep by now. “Go to the left. It’s the door at the end of the hall. But, please, Mr. Morgan…” She couldn’t pass up just one more jibe. “…please don’t tire him out?”

“No. No, Ma’am. I won’t.”

Derek hurried, taking the steps two at a time as he sent up a fervent wish that whatever had reached critical mass in the kitchen would require Haley’s undivided attention long enough for him to see Hotch, and then make his escape.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan slammed to a halt as soon as he reached the bedroom doorway.

He’d been willing to discount a good portion of Haley’s performance. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Hotch lay beneath a light coverlet like a sculpture on a medieval tomb. Pale and still, chest barely moving; all that was missing was a crown and a sword to complete the picture of a stone effigy.

_He’s so still because of the wound. Even asleep, his body knows it’s hurt and is taking measures to guard itself._

Ordinarily, Morgan would have backed away, retracing his steps, feeling leaden with guilt. But he didn’t want to run into Haley again. He thought he needed a few minutes at least, to armor himself before bearding the tigress in her lair on his way out. Then, too…he never _had_ seen firsthand the actual damage he’d done to his boss and friend.

He stepped closer to the bed, eyes fixed on the passive, expressionless face he was so used to seeing animated with authority and purpose. Once again it crossed his mind like a cruel, vagrant breeze, how it would feel if they ever lost Hotch. The back of Derek’s throat tightened with repressed anguish.

He moved closer, and closer. Until he was looking directly down on his leader’s face and body; both disturbingly, yet peacefully, immobile.

Without thinking too much about it, Morgan lifted the bedding away, letting it settle back into neat folds just below Hotch’s hips. He could see the outline of the bandage beneath the thin cotton t-shirt. Morgan watched the faint movement of chest and ribs, at once reassuring and fragile. He realized he could easily span the width of Hotch’s midriff with one powerful hand.

_These last few months have been hard on him. He’s…less…than he was. Thinner. Sadder._

And it would be so easy to raise the hem of the t-shirt and at least look at the bandage…the mute testimony to their mutual misfortune in being maneuvered into a situation where there was no choice but to shoot. 

 _No choice_ , Morgan repeated to himself. _But if I look, I’m breaking a promise I made to leave it alone. And that would mean it would be okay for Hotch to break **his** promise and go through the case files on that cabin…and how it was…decorated…with those two little girls' remains._

Morgan pressed his lips together, stomach lurching at the memory. _No. If nothing else, I’ll protect him from **that**._ In an unconscious echo of his thoughts, he flattened his palm against Hotch’s midsection, feeling the warmth of Aaron’s life and the movement of his breath register in a very tactile way. _I didn’t have a choice out there. I have one here, though._

“Morgan, you had no choice.”

The words, so indicative of his inner dialogue, so unexpected in the Unit Chief’s rumbling baritone, stopped Derek’s breath for a moment.

“Hotch.” Morgan pulled his hand back, but not before Aaron felt the reluctance to do so in trailing fingertips. “Sorry.”

“I know you are.” Yawning, Hotch inclined his head toward the chair before Haley’s vanity. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

Morgan drew the incongruously dainty chair close to the head of the bed while Hotch pulled himself erect, adjusting the blanket higher to cover the evidence of his injury, gathering his sleepy thoughts.

“I’ll be out next week and I need to know that you’ll be able to handle any incoming cases without second-guessing yourself.”

“I’ll do my best, man. You know that.”

Hotch’s voice, although weary, was firm. “I think we have a different understanding of what ‘best’ is when it comes to this job, Morgan. That concerns me. And although I’d like to give you time to work it out on your own, circumstances…” A one-shouldered shrug indicated his own debilitated state. “…don’t give me that option.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.” Aaron’s inner reserves were limited, but he dug into them, narrowing his focus down to the agent watching him with guilty, anxious eyes. “Leading this team is a privilege and an honor, but when you’re in the field, it’s also a liability. Next week, you won’t just be responsible for your own actions, Morgan. You’ll be responsible for the actions of every man and woman who looks to you for direction. Every move. Every mistake. No matter who makes them, they’re ultimately yours.

“It’s a double-edged sword. This is the finest team the Bureau’s ever known. You’ll be given credit when everything goes well…which is most of the time. But you’ll take the blame when it doesn’t.”

Dark, wolf’s eyes drilled into Morgan’s “I need you to understand the full implication of that.”

Derek’s lips parted, about to issue a rote reassurance, but then they clamped shut. There was more here than was immediately obvious. He knew that. He just wasn’t sure exactly what.

Hotch was more encouraged by Morgan’s silence than anything else. Admitting your own ignorance was sometimes more valuable than knowing all the answers. It paved the way for growth and learning and was part of being a true leader.

“Who do you think is blamed…and rightfully so…for _this_?” Hotch’s hand came to rest on his injured side.

Morgan raised his chin, but said nothing. The obvious…the _right_ answer, as far as he was concerned…was him. But even at his least physically imposing, Hotch’s authority commanded his subordinates to do their best. No quick answer would do. And when the ‘right’ one swam up from the depths, Morgan could only shake his head, eyes dampening at the thought of where he was being led.

“No, Hotch. No.” He shook his head in a steady rhythm of denial. “That was _not_ your fault. Never. No way.”

“It was. It… _is_.”

“No.”

“I abandoned protocol. I abandoned my teammates…you and Prentiss. If that cabin had been wired the way we were led to believe, if it had been powerful enough, I could have taken out not only myself and the children we thought might still be alive, but my teammates as well.”

“No.”

“I let my own agenda sideline everything else. Every plan. Every safeguard. By my actions, I forced you to shoot me.” Hotch’s eyes smoldered with earnest intensity. “Morgan, you have to accept, if you lead this team…in a very final way…you _are_ the sum total of the team. It takes an enormous amount of trust to go into the field knowing that. And sometimes I question your capacity to trust. So between now and tomorrow when you walk through the doors of the BAU, you have to accept the role of leader. And the only way to do that is to surrender the responsibility for pulling the trigger on me. If you can’t give me the blame, you can’t lead this team.”

Morgan’s stare was tragic. He didn’t have words at the moment. But, in time, he would.

For now, all he could do…he whose past had made him so careful about touching other men…was to reach out toward his boss.

When Hotch met him halfway, gripping his hand, the current between them felt like the transfer of leadership.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In the doorway, Haley watched something she couldn’t begin to understand, but was very, very _very_ jealous of.


	106. Monday Morning Flock

Monday morning Hotch woke up at the time he would normally head in to his office.

He gave a soft moan. It was a private, little sound of mourning; something a hunting dog might make as he looked out a window, watching all the other dogs bound for adventure, knowing he was doomed to house arrest. Or a trip to the vet. Or a bath. Or worm medicine.

The moan took on added depth when Hotch realized his body really did hurt. He nuzzled deeper into his pillow and, in a rare moment of indulgence, felt sorry for himself.

Until a soft hand with a delicate touch found him, caressing away some of the stiffness. And lips murmured into his ear that, like it or not, he was going to take one of the as yet unused painkillers that was standing a lonely vigil on the nightstand. Recalling he’d said something to Razz about availing himself of the drugs, Hotch took one tablet under Haley’s watchful eye, but with a decidedly apathetic look in his own. As far as he was concerned, if he couldn’t go to work, and if his mobility was impaired, rendering him incapable of pursuing any of the hundred little domestic tasks he was sure his wife had waiting for an able-bodied man to accomplish…he was useless.

He would have liked to log in on his computer; a virtual presence hovering over the BAU, but he resisted the impulse. After his discussion with Morgan, he wanted his second-in-command to have the opportunity to experience the reality of leadership on his own. Hotch wanted the younger agent to know his boss had complete faith and trust in him. And he wanted Morgan to feel that he was operating without a safety net. It was time. He was ready for just such a trial.

 _And I do trust him. Really. It’s just…_ Hotch sighed _…I wish I were there. This is going to be one incredibly long week._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Monday morning J.J. went in early.

Knowing Hotch would be out, she wanted to get a jump on her regular workload so that when the questions Morgan would undoubtedly have, came avalanching down on her, she could field them with graceful calm. It would be easier to do so if her own work was under control.

She put coffee on to brew in the BAU kitchenette, poured herself a cup, and went to her office.

The desk was only slightly buried under incoming files. Most would be requests for consults. The rest would be routine matters about meetings, schedules, signing off on verifications of accrued sick and vacation time. Which reminded J.J. that the paperwork dealing with Hotch’s medical insurance and mandatory leave, plus follow-up assessments of his physical and emotional conditions would need to be dealt with right away.

Sure enough, as she took her seat, her eye was caught by a folder stamped with the identifying logo of the Human Resources Department, perching near the top of her stacked inbox. Putting her cup down, the liaison slipped it out from under a few other files. She opened it, leaning back to read, expecting the usual legalese and instructions.

Her brows rose…and then furrowed…then rose again as she glanced around the bullpen, wondering when Morgan or Rossi would show up.

Something felt…wrong.

 

xxxxxx

 

Monday morning saw Rossi off to a slow start.

Having a houseguest, even one as laid back and undemanding as Razz, threw his schedule off. Instead of coffee for one, he had to remind himself to grind enough beans for two. Instead of padding about half-naked and feeling like a comfortable species of bachelor-savage, Rossi had to remind himself to present a little more civilized façade.

Not that Razz would have cared, but Dave was always aware of the therapist’s scrutiny. The man was in the habit of looking for psychological curiosities. Or maybe just material for future humorous sniping. Either way, Rossi preferred not to make it too easy for him.

On the other hand, engaging in conversation with his friend as they lingered over coffee and pastries, made for a pleasant delay.

“So today you’ll meet the rest of the team.” Rossi’s grin was almost mischievous. “They’re a diverse bunch. I think you’ll find them all enjoyable examples of the kind of reprobates who work tirelessly for Uncle Sam _and_ for common Joes like you.”

Razz cocked one brow, fixing his host with a bleary eye over the rim of his cup. “I’m a patriot, Dave. It’s not the country, per se. It’s the degenerative progress of some of the organizations hiding under the auspices of national government to which I object.”

“Ah…I see.” Rossi tossed Mudge the heel end of his cheese Danish. “Well, it’ll be interesting to hear your impressions of the _degenerates_ you’ll be meeting this morning.”

“Don’t feed your dog pastry, Dave,” the therapist grumbled. “Make him fat. Fat dog for a fat-cat.”

Razz’s lack of cheer early in the day could be excused. He hadn’t slept at all well. Mudgie had been very curious about his master’s houseguest. Every two hours or so, the dog had demonstrated his expertise at opening bedroom doors. Once in the room, he’d give dozing Razz a thorough snuffling, just to be sure it was the same person occupying the bed as the last time his wet nose had intruded. As a result, Mudgie was sleep-deprived, too. But he was looking forward to a good, long snooze once his master and his grumpy guest vacated the premises.

In fact, Mudge thought the guest’s bed would do nicely for his nap venue.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Monday morning Reid, Garcia, and Prentiss trailed in as usual.

Hotch’s absence wouldn’t necessarily impact their respective workloads. But each could detect the slight difference in the BAU atmosphere when it lacked the alpha presence that usually skulked in the corner office.

All three cast regretful looks toward the Unit Chief’s windows, noting the emptiness beyond the half-mast Venetian blinds.

Garcia sighed, pushing her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and blinking lids heavy with glittering, midnight-blue shadow. “So…I wonder how our injured prince is doing?”

“Probably already stir-crazy and mapping out an escape route.” Prentiss grinned. “Or else he’s been logged in for hours and we’ll find about a thousand emails apiece, with more pouring in every minute.”

“Mmmmm…” Reid preferred to keep things logical and realistic. “Actually, Hotch’s probably feeling the tissue damage at its worst about now. He might _want_ to ride herd on us via email, but I bet he can’t do more than make it to the bathroom. Now… _tomorrow_ …that might be a different story.”

Garcia glanced around, occultly aware that her chocolate god had entered the BAU. Her magenta lips spread in a welcoming smile, but it wasn’t returned, because it wasn’t noticed.

Morgan was standing at the upper level railing, surveying the entire bullpen.

Something told the tech analyst that her crush was preoccupied, and seeing something other than the same old place he’d been working for years. He didn’t look in the mood for friendly banter.

Sighing, Penelope bid Reid and Prentiss her wishes for a trauma-free day, and headed for her gaily decorated corner of IT.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Monday morning found Derek wrestling with the previous day’s discussion with Hotch.

It had been playing on a never-ending, repetitious reel through his mind ever since he’d left the Unit Chief’s house, ushered to the door by a stiff and formal Mrs. Hotchner. In truth, Morgan had been so deep in thought, he hadn’t paid much attention to Haley on the way out. She’d buzzed something in his ear about how she’d appreciate as little work-related intrusion as possible during Hotch’s recuperation… “you know…from that _gunshot_ he suffered”…but it had been more annoying than hurtful. Hotch’s words had had a much more powerful, lasting effect, banishing Haley’s to the level of a mosquito’s droning whine.

Afterwards, Morgan had spent a good part of the night lying awake, considering the import of what Hotch had been trying to tell him.

Rossi had frequently said that their leader felt responsibility in a different, more intense way than most. Morgan had accepted that opinion. Hotch always seemed to be putting himself in the line of fire, both when it came to political in-fighting and the very real physical altercations they encountered in the field.

That seeming trend was part of the reason Morgan had appointed himself as Boss-man’s unofficial bodyguard. At different times, he’d variously thought that Hotch was accident prone, or so immersed in cases that he was blind to personal peril. He’d even entertained the brief notion that their leader was trying to demonstrate his alpha status by taking unnecessary risks. Morgan had dismissed this last because it smacked of ego and _ir_ responsibility; two traits which no one could ever ascribe to Hotch.

But now, standing at a vantage point where he could scan the entire bullpen, brain locked in the process of analyzing the quality of leadership in general, and of the Unit Chief’s practice of it in particular, Morgan felt a welling of emotion he’d never before associated with this place and these people. He loved them like family, but…this was different.

_When Hotch stands up here and looks at us, he doesn’t just see a team. He sees extensions of himself. He encompasses us. He doesn’t just defend or represent us…he dives in and almost **becomes** us._

Something purer than pride, deeper than love, stronger than gratitude washed over Morgan.

He swallowed, feeling his pulse quicken.

_My God, this is what Hotch feels every day. This is where his trust, that **phenomenal** trust, comes from. This is what lifts him up and runs through him, filtering down to every one of us. And most of the time we don’t even bother to question it. It’s just part of working with him._

Morgan took a deep, slow, steadying breath. He’d been in the bullpen thousands of times, thousands of hours. But he’d never felt so heady…so intoxicated by the sheer potential of his colleagues before.

_Hotch, I get it. I understand. And when this week is up and you’re back where you belong, I’m gonna tell you how much I appreciate the magic you work, making all this, all these different people and elements…one._

Squaring his shoulders, Morgan took a circuitous route to his desk. He passed by Hotch’s office first, touching the doorknob in recognition of the remarkable spirit of the man who normally resided there. It was something he would do every morning until Hotch returned.

Although everyone noticed the ritual, no one ever questioned it.

It just seemed…right.


	107. Pinions Plucked

When Rossi entered the BAU with a stranger in tow, it was obvious the two knew each other in a capacity that transcended that of a business relationship.

“Hold your nose, Razz. Entering a degenerate federal zone.”

“Shut up, Dave.”

The visitor wasn’t rubber-necking the way most tourists did. In fact, he seemed to know his way around, making a beeline for Rossi’s office. But that might have been because of the highly visible, pricey, Italian artwork gracing the walls.

Turned out, it was. The visitor stopped, peering at a sepia-toned rendering.

“Fifteenth century. Cost more than my first house.” It was Rossi’s standard introduction to one of his favorite pieces of art.

“Mmhmm…” Razz nodded. “And you keep this invaluable treasure here to remind you of the dignity and beauty of which mankind is capable, while your work immerses you in its degradation.” He squinted one gimlet eye at the agent. “Or…you just wanna rub your co-workers’ noses in the meaningless trappings of monetary success.”

“Yo’ mama.”

“Yo’ fat dog.”

Rossi’s belly laugh rang out, cascading onto the catwalk and into the bullpen beyond. And alerting J.J. to his presence.

She’d been nose-deep in her files, but had set the one concerning Hotch’s mandatory leave to the side, ready to act on its contents when the right person was available. Hearing Rossi’s merriment was a welcome trigger. Pushing back her chair, she picked up the Human Resources folder and made her way to Dave’s open door. But when she saw him with a stranger, she hesitated on the threshold just long enough to catch both men’s notice.

Eyes on Razz, Rossi tilted his head toward J.J. “This is a good place for you to begin.” He transferred his regard to the woman hovering just outside the door. “Benjamin Rasmussen, I’d like to present Jennifer Jareau, our very capable communications liaison. J.J. this is a left-fringe element who likes to cause trouble and instigate change. But you can call him Razz.”

“Oh…uh…” Belatedly, J.J. offered her hand. As liaison, propriety and courtesy were ingrained into the very marrow of her bones. Rossi’s insouciant introduction, coming while her mind was preoccupied with Hotch’s file, had unbalanced her. But only for a moment.

She grasped Razz’s hand in a firm, welcoming grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her brows rose. “I take it you’ve known each other for some time?”

“Long enough,” the therapist muttered.

“Razz is a clinical psychologist from the Boston PD. Once upon a time when dinosaurs walked the earth, he helped us screen candidates for the BAU.”

“Really! Well…welcome back…?” J.J. had nuanced her tone in exactly the right way to indicate that she was curious to know if Razz’s presence was a return to duty, much the way Rossi’s had been.

Dave shook his head. “He’s only here as a favor to me, J.J.” His voice lowered, becoming confidential. “I wanted him to take a look at Hotch. Seemed like a good opportunity, since the guy’ll be stuck at home for the rest of the week.”

“Actually…” J.J. held the folder a little higher. “…that’s what I’d like to talk to you about at some point.” She wasn’t sure how much of Hotch’s personal situation should be revealed to an outsider.

Frowning, Rossi took the file and flipped it open, demonstrating complete lack of concern when Razz leaned in to read the contents, too. After a moment, the therapist pulled back, looking quizzical.

“I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”

Dave spared him a glance before returning his full attention to Hotch’s paperwork. “Says Aaron’s mandatory leave has been extended to two full weeks with an option for additional time, if _requested_.”

“So?”

“So it means someone _requested_ the original, standard one week be adjusted up to two.” J.J.’s voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the underlying note of concern. “I thought…well, I hoped…maybe it was you or Morgan?”

Rossi shook his head. “No. Not me. And I seriously doubt Morgan would have a hand in keeping Hotch away.”

The worried note in the liaison’s tone deepened. “But that would mean Hotch…Rossi, is he _that_ bad? Did he just take himself out?”

Razz looked from face to anxious face, his own beginning to display a small, self-satisfied grin. “Don’t tell me neither of you hotshot feds see what’s going on here?”

Rossi turned a deadpan expression on his friend. J.J. did a fine job of melding indignation with curiosity. The therapist just looked smug, crossing his arms and raising one brow.

“Well, maybe you can be excused for overlooking the obvious because you’re both so vested in your colleague’s welfare. But…based on what I’ve seen…so far…at your friend’s house…in the short time I was there…”

“Spit it out, Razz.”

Looking much aggrieved, the therapist did. “I’d say there’s a little lady who wants to keep her injured hubbie by her side for as long as possible. Wouldn’t you?”

“But…how…?” J.J. frowned at the men. “Haley couldn’t possibly know how to make that happen.”

Razz and Rossi exchanged glances. It was Dave who finally spoke from the depths of his experience concerning the fairer sex. “J.J., there is nothing more persistent nor more invidious than a woman…well…scorned, in a way…actually, more like thwarted.”

J.J.’s eyes snapped with incipient anger. Prentiss would have been proud of her. “Now, wait a minute…”

Razz held up his hand to stave off what might turn into an argument drawn along sexist lines. “Please, Ms. Jareau. Let me put this in words far more elegant than this supposed author can manage.”

J.J. waited. After all, she was a master practitioner when it came to etiquette. The therapist took a preparatory breath.

“I spent enough time talking to your boss and observing the dynamics between his wife and…well…an outsider… _me_ , to see a very possessive jealousy underlying her behavior when it comes to her husband. I can’t attest to the details. I don’t know how or why their relationship has developed that way. And I don’t know exactly how she would accomplish this medical leave extension. But I _do_ know that when someone feels threatened…feels the big, bad, outside world is coming after them or their loved ones…ingenuity can take a quantum leap forward.” Razz shrugged. “In short, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And that lady fairly shines with the earmarks of a strong will.”

Rossi’s lips compressed as he scanned the official word on Aaron’s absence one more time. “Well, before we point any fingers, let’s be sure where we stand. I’ll ask Hotch first. He’s got his phone back now, so…” His voice trailed off.

Wordless, his eyes closed for a moment. When they opened, he looked at Razz and shook his head. “Haley had Hotch’s phone. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to find the contacts.”

J.J.’s eyes were wide. “Would she _do_ that? Wait…what am I saying…of course she would.”

“No jumping to conclusions just yet.” Rossi cautioned once more, shoulders slumping. “Let me talk to Hotch and maybe Garcia can do a little in-house snooping. Find a trail on this…” He gestured, folder in hand as he stepped out onto the catwalk. “Razz, why don’t you start with J.J.. I’ll be back in a little while.”

The liaison watched Rossi head off toward IT before turning her attention back to the visitor in their midst. “Start _what_ with me?”

The therapist smiled. “No big deal. I just wanted to touch bases with some of the people Aaron works with. Seems you’re a tight-knit group.”

“We’re a team. Hotch’s team. And if it’ll help him, I’ll talk.” J.J.’s own smiled beamed forth. “Hell, if it’ll help Hotch, we’ll _all_ talk.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley was pleased with the painkillers Hotch had been prescribed.

She’d only coaxed one into him, but now she sat on the side of the bed, watching him doze and smiled at the peaceful, pain-free portrait he presented. She could even stroke his hair and trace the fine bones of his face without fear of waking him.

She studied the dark lashes laying against his cheeks, marveling once again at how beautiful men’s eyes could be without resorting to the stratagems of mascara and shadow and liner. Which sent her mind wandering again into the well-worn paths delineating the traits she imagined he’d bequeath their child. Which sent her mind wandering again into the realms of what they’d have to do repeatedly to make that child happen.

 _He managed it yesterday. I wonder if…_ Her hand hesitated, eyes tracking the length of his body. But when her fingers settled on the gently moving indentation just above his navel, Hotch stirred. Haley held her breath, hoping she hadn’t disturbed him, telling herself she was only mapping out a fantasy, not really meaning to _do_ anything.

But then the deep, rumbling voice, like gravel wrapped in velvet, announced Hotch’s return to consciousness.

“I’m sorry, Haley.”

She leaned over, frowning as she looked down on him. “Sorry?”

“I’m sorry I’m so useless.”

“ _Not_ useless.” Her glance took in his body again. “Beautiful. Like…like Michelangelo’s ‘David.’”

Hotch’s smile was touched with apologetic sadness. “Like a lump of marble. Useless.”

“ _Not_ a lump of marble. A work of art. Now…like the masterpiece you are, be still and let me appreciate you.”

Hotch kept still, watching the changing expressions on his wife’s face as she studied him. It made him think of someone who’d been thirsting in a desert and, at long last, had stumbled upon an oasis. She drank him in.

“Haley, I’m sorry I can’t…”

Haley sighed. “I know. I’m sorry , too. But…” Her smile beamed at him. “We have time. You’ll feel better tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.”

“You think we can, you know, get it done this time? In a week? With me like this?”

“Well…” She caressed his cheek, letting her thumb rest in the hollow beneath the bone. “…we’ll just have to make use of whatever time we have.”

Hotch blinked. He’d expected Haley to use this situation to advance her arguments against his career. She was being unexpectedly complaisant. Although unusual, it was welcome. He wanted nothing more than to be able to relax in the comfort she was creating, spinning care around him like a cocoon.

Haley leaned down, brushing her lips across his with a tiny nip at the end to remind him that she hadn’t abandoned all thoughts of pleasure. They were just being temporarily delayed.

“I’m going to go down and start making us some lunch. Is there anything special you want?”

In truth, the single pill he’d taken had killed his appetite as well as his pain. But he was enjoying the attention and didn’t want to disappoint her. “Grilled cheese?”

“Mmmmm…good choice. And I got some of the extra sharp cheddar you like.” His grin and happy sigh made Haley glad she’d stocked up on some of his favorite ingredients. “I’ll be back in a bit. Go back to sleep if you want to. Grilled cheese will be ready whenever you are.”

She stood, straightened the bedspread where she'd rumpled it when she sat down, and headed for the door.

Hotch closed his eyes, feeling carefree for the first time in ages. He knew part of it was the painkiller, but he also knew part of it was due to Haley’s kindness, devotion, and understanding.

When his phone buzzed from its place on the nightstand, he reached for it, feeling the gritty, aching pang in his side.

“Hotchner.”

He listened for a moment, brows drawing together by increments until they formed a solid, dark line of confusion and dismay. “No, Dave. I never put in for any extra time.” Hotch’s eyes moved toward the door through which his wife had gone.

His feeling of calm vanished. He sincerely hoped it might return, but he needed to talk to Haley before he could feel anything other than the tight knots that were suddenly twisting and writhing in his gut.


	108. Walking on Egg Shells

“Haley? Is there anything I should know? Anything you want to tell me?”

Hotch’s eyes drilled into those of his wife. She could read the intensity, but couldn’t pin down the underlying emotion. Anger? Sorrow? Hope? Dread? Maybe a mixture of all four. Still, his stare was enough to slow her steps as she entered the bedroom, bearing a tray set with lunch for two.

“I…I don’t think so…?” Drawn out, it was a probe, asking for more information. But Haley’s mind was speeding. She might not be a professional profiler, but she could read the tension in Hotch’s posture; the small, shallow sips of air that had replaced the easy rhythm of his breathing when she’d left him a mere fifteen minutes ago.

“Please think. Are you sure?”

“Sweetheart, you’re going to have to give me more to go on. A hint…a clue…something!”

Hotch’s dark gaze remained fixed on his wife as she set out aromatic, grilled cheese sandwiches and iced tea. His stomach hurt. His side hurt. And he was scared that very soon his heart was going to hurt, too. He didn’t have it in him to play games and tap dance around the issue.

Haley heard him take a deep, shaky breath in preparation. She braced herself under the guise of fussing over napkins and cups of tomato soup.

“Dave called. He said someone requested an extension of my medical leave…” Hotch’s pause was expectant, waiting for Haley to pick up the thread and continue.

She faced him; eyes wide, lips parted. The very picture of surprise. And to a large extent, it was genuine. She’d had no idea if her voicemail would have any effect. Only now she was realizing ‘consequences’ might be a more accurate term. Pressured to respond, she opted for the role of misunderstood innocent. Her hands left the mealtime utensils and linens, flying to her mouth.

“Oh, my God! Someone heard me? Someone listened? Oh, my God!”

“Haley…” Hotch’s voice shivered; only a step away from sounding shattered. “…what did you do?”

She balanced on the precise precipice of tears; eyes liquid, but still in control. “I…I…” Her face began to crumple, teetering on the brink… “…I poured my heart out. I had to. To someone. _Any_ one who’d listen…I…I…”

A-n-d over the cliff she went.

Haley Brooks Hotchner was one of those lucky people who could look lovely while crying. No redness invaded her eyes or complexion. No unsightly creases furrowed her brow. No sinus congestion threatened a runny nose. Instead, tears spilled in graceful arcs down her cheeks. A portrait of princess-ly sorrow.

It was hard for Hotch to witness it without extending a comforting hand, but his own pain had been building for some time. It settled in his eyes, as well. Wide and tragic. And deeper and darker and sadder than anything Haley could muster. Seeing it caught her breath.

“H-Haley…you went behind my back?”

She drew herself up, sniffling in a most becoming way. “I had your phone. I wanted someone to listen to me. To know what you give to your job…. What you _take_ from me.” Her voice quavered with emotion. “Aaron, if I could wrap you up and keep you here…or _any_ place, as long as it was with me, as long as it gave you time enough to heal…I would. I’d do almost anything.”

Suspicions verified, Hotch’s gaze dropped to an indistinct spot somewhere near the floor. “You went behind my back. You…you _betrayed_ me?”

Haley’s jaw went slack. She’d seen her actions as proactive, not treasonous. “How can you even _think_ that, Aaron?!? How can you think wanting to keep you safe…wanting to give you time enough to heal before they throw you back out there to be someone’s target again…how can you think that’s anything but loving you?!? _How_!!?”

“Because you went behind my back.” The timbre had left Hotch’s voice. He sounded weak and thin. “I’ve only asked you two things as far as my work is concerned, Haley. One: to respect my teammates, and two: not to cross the lines between my personal life and my job.”

“But that’s not possible!” It was almost a wail. “ _You’re_ the factor that crosses the lines, Aaron! You can’t expect me to stop caring about you, wanting to protect you, when you step out the door, as though you were putting on your work harness and I could turn the reins over to another handler! You can’t! Because those people who look after you out _there_ don’t love you the way I do!” Her voice rose, strident with emotion and a sense of injustice.

“And you’ve asked me a _lot_ more than just those two things! You’ve asked me to share you. You’ve asked me to limit my own interests in you. You’ve asked me to step back and die a little inside every time you leave and might not return. Aaron…you’ve asked me to put a limit on love.”

Haley’s voice broke; this time it was uncontrollable, from the deep place where all her possessiveness and obsessions lived; where they’d formed long ago and sculpted her into the woman she was now.

“I can’t do that, Aaron! I can’t love you only to a certain degree. I can’t love you at your convenience. I can’t…I can’t…I can’t…You’re mine! I want all of you! And I don’t know how to want you less…Can’t…can’t…Won’t! No, I _won’t_!”

She nearly flew at Hotch, scooping him into her arms with a fierce intensity that would have hurt, if it hadn’t stunned him first. Her voice was muffled, pressed against his neck.

“Don’t you _dare_ ask me to love you any less! Don’t…you… _dare_!...”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi’s casual, strolling pace belied the twinge of anxiety he was keeping under wraps as he made his way to IT.

He noticed the keypad on the outer wall was disarmed, indicating Garcia was in and open to visitors. Pushing his way through the massive, steel door, he shivered at the cooler temperature; a concession to the banks of expensive machinery intended as a safeguard should they overheat. But the hottest thing in the room was the bright spot of color otherwise known as Penelope.

Worries aside, Rossi couldn’t help grinning at the picture she presented. Molten yellow, acid green, electric blue, hot pink. All somehow melded into the pseudo-plaid fabric of her dress. He always wondered where she shopped. But he was afraid to ask.

“Morning, O’ Descendant of Emperors!” Her smile flashed a welcome.

“Morning, one who, uh, wears the splendor of, uh, a psychedelic rainbow?” Rossi stretched for a comparable greeting and couldn’t help where it went.

Having Razz around made his brain feel as though the 60s and 70s were lurking, lying in wait to pounce on more conservative decades. And nothing referenced that timeframe to him more than the term ‘psychedelic.’ _Never heard it before Haight-Ashbury. Only hear it now from latter day stoners…like Razz…_ His grin widened at his friend’s expense. Rossi liked to store up descriptive phrases and trot them out when the two men were embroiled in one of their debates. And the crack about ‘fat dog’ deserved a rebuttal at least as disrespectful as ‘stoner.’

“What’s up?” Garcia’s large eyes blinked at the agent from behind a vintage pair of cat’s-eye frames, complete with leopard spots.

“I’m not sure. And I’m not sure if you can even help with something like this…” Rossi knew it was throwing down a gauntlet before the tech analyst to suggest her talents might not be applicable in any search for information. He also knew that it wasn’t necessary if it was for Hotch. But being challenged put a sparkle in Garcia’s eye. She sat straighter, brows rising.

“It’s from Human Resources. About Hotch.” Rossi tilted his head and studied the memo, considering what starting point might prove most productive. “I have a suspicion where this all began, but I’d like to keep it to myself until there’s proof. So…could you…?”

“Find out where it was born and where its travels have taken it?” She reached for the file in Rossi’s hands.

“Exactly. And…”

“And treat it with the utmost discretion, my Italian repast?”

A lopsided smile warmed Rossi’s expression. “Thank you, Garcia.”

The techie fairly scintillated, bracelets glittering as she set the opened folder to one side and dove into the virtual world she adored almost as much as her teammates.

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J. and Razz had retreated to the liaison’s office.

They’d been tracked by the curious gazes of Prentiss and Reid. Morgan was too deep in his role as temporary BAU leader to take much notice of the visitor. If Rossi had brought him in, that was good enough for Derek. He’d find out soon enough if there was anything he should know.

Razz took a seat, giving J.J. time to settle herself in a chair opposite him, her face alight with intelligence and curiosity. _But she’s also wary. She carries a very peculiar type of serenity that’s so inviting it borders on being hypnotic. Must help her a lot in her work._

He glanced out the window into the bullpen, noting the wide, innocent look of Reid; the nose-to-the-grindstone posture of Morgan; and the sharp inquisition of Prentiss’ eyes. When the therapist met her frank gaze, she didn’t flinch. If anything, she sat more erect, honing her focus on him. Razz gave a small half-smile, but it wasn’t returned.

 _Now **that’s** someone who at first impression belongs in the BAU_ , he thought. _But…it’s only a first impression. And Aaron presented the same fierce, predatory look when I first saw him._

He shook his head. _No, not the same. There was always a brittle fragility about Aaron. Seems odd to say about a man whom most think is tough as nails, but…well…he’s a sweetheart in the most literal sense. Actually has a sweet heart. A heart that bruises easily, too._

“Can I get you anything?” J.J.’s voice was placid, even soothing. “Or would you like to tell me more about why you’re here?”

Razz pulled himself back from observing the crew in the bullpen. “Nothing, thanks; I’m fine. My time here is limited, and since we don’t know when or if you’ll all be called away, I’d like to get right down to it.”

J.J. leaned forward, inviting this stranger to begin.

“I’d like to hear your thoughts on Aaron Hotchner. Anything you want to say. Completely confidential, of course, unless you indicate otherwise.”

“Off the record, is that it?” The communications liaison smiled. It was part and parcel of the world in which she worked to provide loopholes for the truth. She was comfortable with them and believed Rossi’s friend would respect them. “Why would you like to know about Hotch?”

Razz leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs at the ankles. “It can’t have escaped your notice that he’s been having a hard time lately. I’m just here to help. But I can’t operate in a vacuum. I’ve already talked with Aaron. That’s like having a portrait on paper. Talking to those who know him best is like adding dimension. The portrait becomes a sculpture. Maybe even takes on some animation.”

J.J. nodded. She trusted Rossi’s choice of companions, but she needed to run her own personality diagnostic before she was at ease sharing information about her boss. Razz wasn’t asking her to reveal anything she would be reluctant to offer. She felt no pressure; no ulterior motive.

“Alright. Hotch _has_ been struggling a little. I hope he gets some rest while he’s at home this week…or two, as the case may be.”

“Yes…his wife might be behind that.”

J.J.’s grimace told Razz more than her words. “We’ve had some contact, his wife and I. Can’t think it’ll continue, though.”

“Why’s that?”

A deep breath preceded the reply. “You’re here to help Hotch, so you’ll understand, I hope. We _all_ wanted to help Hotch. We thought we were. I can only really speak for myself. I thought Haley…Hotch’s wife…wouldn’t steer us wrong. She’s supposed to know him better than anyone. So, when she asked for help with…stuff…I trusted her; went along with her.” J.J. gave her head a remorseful shake. “Even helped her plan ways to get what she wanted. But…” She shook her head again, falling silent as she gaged Razz’s reaction.

The therapist displayed only sympathetic attention. J.J. continued.

“Everything snowballed. All of us got involved. But it turned out what we were doing was helping Haley…and hurting Hotch.” Her head hung, eyes seeking the nonjudgmental floor.

She sighed. “Have you ever met someone who was unstoppable simply because they operated with a complete lack of empathy?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s what Haley’s like. Her intentions aren’t necessarily bad, but she doesn’t know how to take anyone else’s feelings into consideration. At least…” She fastened on the floor again. “…that’s how it seems to me.”

Razz waited, but it seemed J.J. was done.

_Interesting. I asked about Aaron, but she talked about Haley. She might not even know it, but she instinctively went to what concerns her most about him. And it’s not his job. Or anything intrinsic to him, his personality._

_I wonder if she knows what she described…lack of empathy, self-absorption… is a modified version of an unsub?_

Razz shuddered, wondering if maybe the man he deemed too sensitive for long-term survival in the BAU, might have failed to profile his own wife, ending up in a marriage where long-term survival was also an unlikely prospect.

_Ohhh, Aaron. What have you gotten yourself into?_


	109. The Covey Convenes

J.J. didn’t seem anxious to discuss Hotch beyond her analysis of how his wife’s intrusion into the workings of the BAU had ultimately hurt him. In her estimation this was the crux of all the misfortunes of the last several months. At least, the ones that had fallen on her Unit Chief the hardest.

Razz respected the liaison’s limits. He sighed. “Thanks for talking to me. I’d like to have a word with Aaron’s other teammates.” He craned his neck toward the bullpen. “Who would you suggest I go to next?”

J.J.’s smile was wry. “It better be Prentiss. If she sees you talking to everyone else, she’ll be useless until she bullies information out of me.”

“Bully, huh?”

“In the best way. Very productive, protective bully.”

“Ah.” Razz focused on the dark-haired woman making desultory passes at the paperwork littered across her desktop. Within seconds, she met his gaze; either sensing his attention, or making it a point to check on the stranger in their midst at regular intervals. Once their eyes locked, she held her position. “Let me guess: Prentiss is the alpha counterpart to your boss?”

J.J. grinned. “You could say that, but we usually don’t break down the team beyond who’s in charge and who’s second-in-command if anything takes Hotch down.”

Razz glanced at the liaison for a second before resuming his stare-down with Prentiss. “Hotch. I have to remember to call him that. To me, he’s Aaron, the eager, young BAU wannabe.” He shook his head. “Time does fly, doesn’t it…”

He looked again into the bullpen, where Prentiss was gazing right back. “Well, in the interest of saving you from the direct attack of your curious colleague, would you mind if I used your office to talk to Agent Prentiss?”

“Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you Dr. Rasmussen.”

“‘Razz.’  Just ‘Razz.’ And the pleasure was mine.” But his attention was still on the dark-eyed woman who managed to issue a challenge without moving a muscle. He suppressed a grin and dredged up a verse from his childhood that felt appropriate as J.J. fetched her teammate.

_By the pricking in my thumbs, something wicked this way comes._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“What is this about?” Prentiss’ gaze, as well as her voice, were level.

“It’s about Aaron Hotchner. I’m a friend of David Rossi’s. I’m here to help Aar…uh…Hotch…sort some things out.” Razz had the sensation he was sitting opposite a primed weapon. It was unsettling and alluring at once.

“So you’re not part of the Bureau.”

“No. Most of the time you’ll find me in Boston, walking cops through mental minefields.”

“So this has nothing to do with Hotch’s performance as Unit Chief?”

“Not unless there’s something you think I should know that would help me talk to him.” The therapist found he was intensely alert. It was an effect of knowing this agent was scrutinizing every word, every fidget, every nuance.

“Have you talked to Hotch? Does he know you’re here?” Prentiss’ eyes were darker than obsidian.

“I have. And he does.” Razz took a breath and leaned a little closer. “Ms. Prentiss…”

“ _Agent_ Prentiss.”

That made Razz smile. He was being put through his paces, and Aaron’s subordinate was making sure this newcomer would not encroach on her leader’s territory without express permission. And even if he _did_ have permission, she was making it clear that he was at the bottom of the pack hierarchy as far as she was concerned.

_By God, she’s as feral and predatory as Aaron’s eyes._

“I’m sorry. _Agent_ Prentiss. I’m not here to evaluate your Chief in any professional capacity. I understand he’s been through more than his share of rough patches. I only want to help. And I’m only here for a short time. I’m not going to shake anything up, or make any life-altering changes. I just hope to help a young man I found engaging when I first encountered him years ago.”

Emily raised her chin. “You’ve known Hotch before?”

“Studied him, actually.” Razz saw he’d caught her interest and used it to shoehorn himself into her trust a little deeper. “I was on the board that evaluated agents as part of the screening process for joining the BAU; for becoming a profiler.”

He was pleased to see the tension in her posture ease. _J.J. said this one was a protective bully. She’s certainly protective of Aaron. I wonder if that’s because she knows she’s tougher inside than he is?_

“So you knew Hotch before he was in the BAU?”

Razz nodded.

“What was he like?”

The therapist exhaled a long, slow breath while he considered the question itself as well as the issue of confidentiality. “It’s been a while. But some essential characteristics never change. He was a good man then. I’m sure he’s a good man now. You know him better than I do, Agent Prentiss. What do _you_ think of him?”

It was a way to steer the conversation in the direction Razz wanted. He knew he wasn’t being manipulative or getting away with anything. This woman knew exactly what he was doing. And she let him.

“Hotch is the best. We all stand behind him.”

Razz noticed a shadow seemed to dim the ferocity of her eyes. “B-u-t…?” he prompted.

“But sometimes we overstep our boundaries. We try to help too much. Maybe protect too much.” Clearly Prentiss had come to the decision to share her opinion.

“How so?”

She sighed. “We crossed over into his personal life. Thing is, Hotch works so hard to keep his career separate. And we trampled all over him in our zeal to make him happy, if you can believe it. We should have respected his wishes and pulled back.”

“Why does he want to divide his life into parts like that? Do you know?”

There was no mistaking the slight sneer that lifted Prentiss’ lip. “Hotch’s wife and his job don’t mix. But…in our defense…Haley was the one who started the whole landslide. It didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. Hotch got hurt.” She lowered her eyes to her hands.

Razz noticed she was picking at her nails, savaging the cuticles. _Classic safety valve to let off pressure. And, again, it comes around to Aaron’s wife._

“What are your thoughts about Mrs. Hotchner?”

Prentiss stopped ruining her manicure and glanced out into the bullpen, brows drawn together. “I really need to get back to work. We’re a man short this week, as you know.” She stood, giving Razz a professionally polite nod, indicating the session was over. But she hesitated in the doorway.

Without looking back, Prentiss delivered her verdict on Haley.

“Hotch could do better.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley’s fingertips were reading her husband’s body like braille; deciphering code in the tiny movements of his ribs and chest, the little shivers that coursed along his limbs.

The message wasn’t good.

Hotch was hurt. And Haley was only just beginning to realize that her unending, bottomless, unstoppable love might not be enough to heal him. She was used to overwhelming him and liked to imagine affection like honey seeping into him and coating all the pains, cushioning them, filling the cracks and breaks. It didn’t feel as though it was working this time.

She needed time to explore this unexpected and unwelcome possibility. In the meantime, she wouldn’t let go. The Hotchners clung together, flesh pressed to flesh, breathing synchronized.

Lunch was a loss. Grilled cheese congealed on the plate. A thin membrane formed over the tomato soup. The iced tea had turned lukewarm. Neither cared.

Haley had eased Aaron back against the pillows, but otherwise, they hadn’t moved or spoken for nearly an hour. Her hands were so sensitized to him that she could tell when he meant to speak before the words formed. Still, after the clinging silence, Hotch’s deep voice seemed shockingly intrusive.

“Haley, we can’t go on like this.” He drew a ragged breath. “ _I_ can’t, anyway.”

She cinched him tighter, although a moment before she wouldn’t have thought it possible to pull his body even a millimeter closer. “I know…I know…I know…” She buried her face in his chest, feeling his heartbeat pulse against her cheek.

“I’m serious.” There was a roughness to Hotch’s tone that told her he was thoroughly weary. “We need to fix this. What are we going to do?”

No matter what regrets Haley had been mulling for the last hour, being asked, being given the opportunity to lay out the course of their future, even if it had potentially been a rhetorical question, was like blowing a horn before a foxhound during a hunt. She rallied, mind leaping to construct a proposal that would smooth things between them enough to enable them to move forward as spouses and, hopefully, parents.

She spoke still pressed tight against him, knowing it was a tactic that usually made Hotch quiver with pleasure as her lips moved.

“We’re going to spend the rest of your time at home talking and figuring out how to keep this kind of thing from happening again.” Haley nuzzled, feeling her husband’s body react in spite of injury and emotional upset. “We’re going to listen to each other and make plans. I’m going to take care of you and you’re going to let me. And when you feel stronger and healthier, we’ll work on starting a family again.”

Haley pulled back, looking up into eyes dark with disillusionment and doubt. She ran her hands under Hotch’s arms, ending behind his shoulders; a move that forced the broad expanse of his chest forward.

“Everything will work out, Aaron. I’m so sure of it. This is just one of those times in every marriage when you have to be patient.” She searched his face for any signs of agreement, but was disappointed. “You’re tired, Sweetheart. I know that. Please rest and we’ll talk it all out later?”

Hotch’s only response was a small sigh. She felt the brief expansion of his lungs.

“Rest, Sweetheart. Everything will get better. I know it will. I know it…”

She echoed his deep breath with one of her own. Moving in, she rested her chin in the center of his chest, in that precise spot over his breastbone.

“Rest, Sweetheart…”

With her hands behind him, holding him in gentle captivity, she pressed against the bones of his chest until she felt his muscles release the majority of their tension.

“Rest, Sweetheart…,” she whispered as Hotch’s eyes half-closed.

“Rest, Sweetheart…”

As usual, Haley got her way.   


	110. Odd Duck

When Prentiss returned to her desk, J.J. glanced at Morgan and Reid. Derek was deep in conversation, conducting a consultation over the phone. So by default…

“Your turn, Spence.”

Reid turned wide, nervous eyes on both Emily and the liaison. “Why? I couldn’t even get to see Hotch when I brought his medicine by. What makes this guy think I know anything useful?”

“Jeez, Reid.” Prentiss gave a small snort as she resumed her seat. “Out of all of us, the one who knows the most about _every_ thing is you. Do the guy a favor; let him pick your brain.”

J.J. took a more comforting approach. “Hotch isn’t in trouble. This is just a friend of Rossi’s who offered to step in and smooth a few things out.”

Prentiss gave the young genius a look filled with evil mischief. “Yeah…especially since we couldn’t do any smoothing ourselves. In fact, we’re pretty much champion rougheners at this point. Maybe you can make up for your part in it all by spilling your guts about Boss-man.” She raised an arm, gesturing with the solemnity of a prophet. “Go, Reid…Go and absolve yourself…Go…”

“Emily! You’re not helping.” The liaison turned kind eyes on the youngest team member. “This isn’t an inquisition. It’s someone Rossi called in for Hotch’s benefit; not to punish anyone. Besides, out of all of us, Spence, you’re the one who did the least…who meddled the least. You have nothing to be ashamed of or worried about.”

Reid grumbled as he pushed himself out of his chair. “Yeah. Sure. That’s why Mrs. Hotchner didn’t want me in her house even for a minute. Probably disinfected the steps and the walk after I left.”

Dragging his large feet in their mismatched socks all the way, the young doctor made his way up to J.J.’s office.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi had left Razz to himself when it came to conducting interviews with the team. He had his own work to do and he was more interested in getting proof positive in the matter of Hotch’s mysteriously expanding medical leave than anything else.

He watched the slow procession of teammates trudging into J.J.’s office to speak with a stranger and felt a little sorry for them. They didn’t know Ben Rasmussen the way he did. They were all a little heartsick on Hotch’s behalf and suspicious of anyone who dared meddle. Because they…the most well-meaning people of all…had meddled, and had hurt their leader as a result.

Rossi caught Reid’s eye as he came to the top of the stairs, and winked. The young agent’s lips quirked, but it was in recognition, not relief. Dave heard J.J.’s door close, followed by the muted murmur of voices. He hoped talking would not only help Razz flesh out his picture of how the Aaron Hotchner he’d analyzed years ago had changed and grown, but would also help each of his teammates feel better. Rossi totally agreed with Razz on one point: sometimes the only way to get the feelings and ideas out; the only way to make them leave you alone…was to say the words associated with them.

He couldn’t help wondering what words had passed between the Hotchners since his call, asking Aaron if he’d put in for extra leave. The Unit Chief had been shocked, adding fuel to Rossi’s suspicion about the genesis of the request. His profiler’s mind ran various imaginary scenes that might have taken place after Hotch had hung up, if he’d asked Haley about it.

 _What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall for that conversation_ , Dave mused. Then the corners of his mouth turned downward, first envisioning the fur flying, and then thinking of Aaron’s peculiar reaction if you touched him in just the right spot, and…again…seeing the unfair advantage Haley would have over an injured, troubled husband. Rossi sighed.

_What I wouldn’t give to be a hand on Aaron’s chest…if he needs it._

He couldn’t know that Haley had made use of that particular feature already.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch wasn’t really asleep.

He was floating in the mostly involuntary state of relaxation into which Haley had pressed him. After the arguing, his heart and stomach had erupted in turmoil. Every time he thought of the words ‘wife’ and ‘betrayal’ joined together, he lost the ability to be dispassionate.

He hadn’t chosen it, but he was grateful for the respite. Having that weird, relaxation reflex put into play didn’t solve anything, but it didn’t make things worse either. And he _did_ feel a little bit reassured when Haley cuddled him close and kept whispering, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I didn’t know…I just didn’t know…”

Again, it didn’t fix things, but still, it might be a turning point where they could establish a more solid foundation for their marriage via better communication. And when the nagging, little voice in Aaron’s mind said, “But she _should_ have known; after everything, she _should_ have known…,” he ordered it to shut up and leave him alone.

Haley’s arms tightening around him broke him out of his reverie.

“Sweetheart, we never did get lunch. Let’s try again, okay?” She kissed his temple, smoothing the soft hair with her lips. “I’ll bring it up and we’ll eat and talk. Not shout or blame, but listen to each other and try to understand what the other person is saying. Sound good?”

Hotch nodded. “Okay.”

Anything was better than fighting. In truth, every time Hotch heard family members raising their voices, engaged in battle, it accessed a very ugly, very tender place deep inside him that he was afraid would never heal. As soon as the sounds…the volume and cadences of anger…reached him, he had to clamp down on ghost-voices from his past. At times like this, only vaguely alert, feeling his muscles were made of molasses, Hotch was even more vulnerable to that place that harbored still-scared, still-hurt, boy-Aaron.

So when Haley offered calm, quiet hope of reconciliation, he was only too willing to go along.

She gave him one more squeeze, one more kiss, and then headed downstairs to salvage what she could and recreate what she must to produce a perfect lunch.

She hoped to do the same with Aaron.

He was so close to being the perfect husband. It was unthinkable not to push him to attain a plateau that was only inches away. It just required careful handling. She decided she needed to use a lighter touch.

_Like Mom says, men are onions. You have to peel away their layers very gently._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Razz blinked at the man fidgeting in the seat opposite him.

He hadn’t realized how young this agent was until he’d come close enough to perform the standard introductions. _But it’s not only chronological youthfulness. It’s developmental. One of those poor, gifted souls whose intellect outpaced physical and emotional growth._

The insight made the therapist a little uneasy. People like Reid carried very special scars thanks to the lack of social and mental synchronicity that produced their loneliness. He didn’t want to stumble and inadvertently say something hurtful. He had a feeling this was another associate of Rossi’s who had suffered more than his share of damage along the way.

Razz grimaced to himself. _How do these children get into the BAU? They should be in milder professions where they’re not battered to pieces on every case._ Outwardly, he smiled and looked for a conversational on-ramp that would allow him to enter the flow and put this nervous, young man at ease.

“Why did you choose the FBI, Dr. Reid? Given your education and degrees, I would think you would have been more attracted to the world of academia.”

Reid shifted in his chair, taking a lot of interest in his own knuckles. “I like profiling. I’ve never really done anything else…except go to  school.” He glanced up. Seeing genuine interest in Razz’s eyes encouraged him to elaborate. “They let me into the BAU early; right out of the Academy. And they waived a lot of the physical requirements, so I guess the FBI thought I was good at it. Haven’t really tried anything else,” he repeated.

“They groomed you.” The therapist saw an uneasy look flash across Reid’s face; quickly gone.

“What do you mean?”

“Normally, an agent would have to work in the Bureau for eight to ten years before being considered for the BAU. None of that applies in your case.” Razz’s smile was warm. “They must have wanted you very badly. Your whole career is quite a compliment, courtesy of the federal government.”

_And if I’d been here, I would have fought against their hijacking you and leaving you no choice in how you spend your life. You were so thrilled to find a place that wanted you… **you** , who never fit in anywhere…you never questioned it. Out of gratitude, you’ll give them lifelong loyalty._

A tiny light came on in the recesses of Razz’s mind. _You and Aaron are very similar. He probably never thought he’d find anyone who’d love him. He’s giving that same kind of lifelong loyalty…with no desire to even consider something else might exist for which he’s better suited. You both suffer from an overabundance of gratitude._

Reid ducked his head. “I don’t think of it that way.” One shoulder rose and dropped in a bashful shrug. “I like this work. This is where I belong. I can do good things here.”

Razz reminded himself to stay on track; he wasn’t a career advisor any more than he was a marriage counselor…although increasingly he was thinking Aaron’s personal life was more to blame for his emotional breakdowns than his professional circumstances.

“I have a feeling someone like you could do good things almost anywhere.”

Frowning, Reid chewed on his lip for a moment. “I thought we were here to discuss Hotch.”

Razz was taken aback, but recovered quickly. _This kid is off-the-charts smart. I should’ve known he’d see through any psychological bag of tricks to set him at ease or weasel my way into his confidence._ He sighed. _Live and learn. But, in my own defense, this is a very unusual team Aaron’s put together._

“I’m sorry, Dr. Reid. Yes, I’m interested to hear any insights you might have about Hotch.”

“He’s…he’s…” Reid was surprised at his own sudden lack of verbal ability. He decided it was because the subject at hand was one that mattered very, very much to him. He tried to still the constant chatter of his brain; to bypass it and speak from the heart…a skill at which he’d had very little practice.

“Hotch is why we’re statistically the most successful BAU team the Bureau’s ever had. We all want the best for him. And I guess you’re here in part because we tried to help him, and we shouldn’t have, and now he’s in bad shape…in pain… _hurting_ because of us. Right?”

Razz donned his poker-face. This brilliant, young agent went too deep, too fast. There were unshed tears in his eyes when he spoke about his leader’s misfortune. _Extreme empathy. Again, a lot like Aaron. But not as good at suppressing it, hiding it, as Aaron is._

“It’s not as dire as all that, Dr. Reid. I’m just doing a favor for a friend. If your Hotch was teetering on the brink of disaster, believe me, he’d be sequestered somewhere getting professional help.”

“But you _are_ a professional.” There was no mistaking the accusatory tone.

“I think David Rossi would debate that, but…okay…I’ll lay my cards on the table, if you’ll do the same.”

At last, Reid showed a ghost of a smile. Cards and the attendant skills of gaming, played right into his Vegas-bred strong suit. He nodded, waiting for the therapist to go first.

Razz took a deep breath. “Hotch asked for help. I won’t disclose everything…confidentiality applies even if I’m not here officially. But he’s tired and he’s hurt and when a man’s weakened physically and emotionally, sometimes things float to the top that were buried deep in his subconscious. Sometimes a man needs help sorting through them so he can decide what’s important and what should be discarded. It’s not unusual. But it _is_ inconvenient when your job is already stressful. And it’s a terribly private process. So…” He leaned in. “…I’m the sounding board of choice for this endeavor. And I’ll tell you something more: I like your boss. I liked him when he first showed up on the BAU’s doorstep, and I like him now. Anything you can tell me that’ll help me sort out what’s troubling him will be appreciated. And Hotch will never know who said what.”

Reid studied the therapist’s somber expression for several beats. Razz had no idea what such a mind might be thinking; what statistics were being formulated; what equations run. But when the young agent finally smiled and bent forward, elbows on knees, ready to talk, Razz felt as though he’d won a magnificent prize.

He had.

In the name of helping Hotch, Reid told everything.

And both J.J. and Prentiss had been right. Spencer had meddled least, but in his quiet, steady, observant way…he’d put together more about Hotch than any of them.


	111. Bird Watch

Razz watched Reid change as he opened up, revealing, bit by bit, the portrait he’d built up of Hotch over the years.

The young agent grew at once more relaxed and more animated. It made the therapist think that here, too, was someone who needed to use words to free the images that had settled inside him. But instead of the nightmare apparitions that plagued Aaron, Reid’s were thoughtful assessments of someone for whom he felt more respect and affection than he would admit as a rule.

 _He can do it now, because I’ve given him an altruistic reason to talk. He’s **helping** Hotch, not gossiping about him._ Razz hid a grin. _And he’s proud of his boss, he’s allowing himself to boast a little._

“He’s strong,” the young genius had begun. “Stronger than anyone I know, but it’s cost him everything.”

“Strong how?”

Reid gave the other man a dismissive look. “You know what I mean. We’ll save time if you don’t ask the obvious stuff. I think with you, it’s like a professional reflex to ask, but…well…I don’t know if we’ll get called out at any moment on a case, so it’ll save time if you…” He faded, wondering if he’d gone too far and given offense when none was meant. It was something Reid had been told he could do without intention or even awareness. It was part of the repertoire that kept him socially isolated. His mind just didn’t perceive the nuances that seemed to come naturally to others.

He was relieved when Razz smiled.

“I know what you mean,” he admitted.

Hotch was finely muscled for his build, but he’d never win any contests when it came to sheer physical strength. _However, he **will** win physical altercations with men who outstrip him in the muscle department because of a commitment to the battle that would take an opponent by surprise. Sheer will. That’s what will tip the scales in Aaron’s favor. His spirit will never flag, if he’s fighting for something or someone who needs him._

In the interest of time, Razz kept his thoughts to himself, nodding at the younger man to continue.

“It’s as though Hotch has gone through so much that it’s burned away most of the nonessentials…the illusions, the dreams, the selfish bits.” Reid’s lips stretched in a wry grin. “Freudians would call it the ego. He’s got the super-ego that holds him to this high, self-imposed standard. And he’s got the id, because that’s what allows him to identify and empathize with even the worst dregs of humanity that we encounter. But that middle part that bridges the other two, and provides defense mechanisms…it’s been altered. It’s not the same as most people’s.”

Reid realized his words had been pouring out, nearly stumbling over themselves in his zeal to explain, and probably sounding condescending to a practicing clinical psychologist. Shrugging, he glanced down. “At least…if you buy into Freud’s basic theories, that is…which I don’t always…not with dreams anyway…but…you know…as a graph to chart personality traits…” He faded out again.

Razz decided to stick with the words that seemed to encourage this young man with the eclectic, effervescing mind. “I know what you mean.”

Reid’s eyes narrowed, trying to pick the best, most illustrative definition of Hotch out of dozens he’d formed over time.

“Doing this job is like walking out on a pier over really treacherous waters. There are sea monsters on every side and the waves are threatening to swamp you. You _know_ that no matter what you do, you’re going to get wet. You keep walking and the land, the safety of it, is getting farther and farther away, receding until it might as well never have existed in the first place, ‘cause you can’t reach it. You’re on your own. And then…you get a glimpse of one of the pilings that keeps the pier steady. It’s sturdy and strong, and it’ll never let what you’re walking on collapse, no matter how many of the monsters are slamming into it, no matter how soaked it gets.” Reid took a breath.

“That’s Hotch. He’s the foundation that you take for granted until you walk out over the water.” He paused, clearing his throat. “We’re all responsible for each other when we’re in the field.”

Razz nodded. He knew all the tenets and teachings of the BAU and the Bureau, but he didn’t want to interrupt this unexpectedly rich vein of Hotch-lore.

“It’s true. We trust each other and we’d do our best to save whoever’s in trouble. But it’s different with Hotch. We’d all fight for one another and we all have each other’s backs, but…” Reid’s voice lowered, taking on an almost awed tone. “…I could see Hotch stepping in front of a bullet if he thought there was no other way to save whichever of us was the target.”

Reid’s eyes filled, but he raised his chin and held himself together. “It’s more than trusting us with his life and vice versa. Hotch would sacrifice himself for any one of us. I’m not sure if the rest of us would go that far, could be that selfless. But Hotch? I’m sure of it. And he’d do it calmly, with clear eyes and a full heart.”

Razz watched the young agent study the floor by his feet, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“Are you saying he might have suicidal tendencies?”

Reid’s head snapped up. “What? No! Nothing like that! Hotch values his life as much as anyone. That’s why it’s so…so…”

“Heroic?”

“Yes.” Reid gave a decisive nod. “That’s exactly what it is. Hotch loves his life. He would never throw it away. But he’d give it up if he knew it would save one of us. You could say it’s that damaged ego thing, or…” He sounded proud. “…or you could say he’s an honest-to-God hero. In a really quiet, deep way. That’s what Hotch is.”

Razz watched in silence as the young doctor’s brimming eyes finally overflowed. It wasn’t much. Not a deluge. Just a two-tear tribute to a leader who loved his team, and was loved in return.

After a few minutes, the therapist spoke in a soft voice. “Is that what happened this time? Is that why Hotch got shot?”

Reid gave his eyes an impatient swipe and shook his head. “No. I can’t talk about that. I wasn’t there. You should ask Morgan or Prentiss. They were with Hotch.”

“Well, I’ve already seen Ms.….uh,… _Agent_ Prentiss, so I suppose Mr. Morgan will be next.” Razz leaned back with a sigh. “And then I’ll have met the whole team.”

“Have you met Garcia?” Reid looked earnest.

“No.”

“You should. Talk to her. She sees things from a different angle than the rest of us.”

Reid stood, ready to bring this interview to an end, but hesitated, turning troubled eyes on the therapist. “Is there anything we can do… _I_ can do…to help Hotch? I mean, we kind of messed things up for him and, if there’s _any_ thing that’ll make him feel better…maybe…?”

The agent’s eager-sad puppy demeanor touched Razz’s heart.

“I’m sure he’d like to know you’re thinking about him. A call or a visit might perk him up.”

He watched Reid’s face and shoulders slump. “No. Already tried that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I, uh,…I went over there the other night to drop off Hotch’s medicine.” Reid avoided the older man’s eyes. “Rossi thought it would be a good idea for me to talk to him, but…well…”

“What?” A frown creased Razz’s brow.

Reid glanced up, and braced himself to blurt everything out before making his escape. Having said as much as he had, he saw no point in closing down now. “Mrs. Hotchner doesn’t want any of us, you know… _bothering_ Hotch. So I left.” His voice turned brisk. “It’s been nice meeting you, Dr. Rasmussen. I hope you can help Hotch.”

And then Reid bolted, leaving the therapist to consider, once again, the woman who had set herself up as a buffer between Aaron and the rest of the world.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“How’d it go, Pretty Boy?” Morgan was busy fielding calls and memos Hotch would normally have taken, but he treated himself to a break so he could needle his young friend. It was one of his favorite leisure activities.

“Fine, I guess.” Reid exhaled. He actually _did_ feel better about the whole Hotch situation after talking to Razz. He was keenly aware that he’d said things he’d never previously put into words. And likely never would again. But he’d meant every one of them, and, having voiced them, he felt lighter, less burdened. “The only thing better would have been to talk to Hotch face to face.”

“What’s that?” Prentiss gave him a sharp look.

“What?” _Did I say that out loud?!_ Reid closed in on himself, sliding into the chair behind his desk.

“Did you say you wanted to go talk to Hotch?”

There was something in Prentiss’ expression that made the young doctor uneasy. Whenever she had to endure forced idleness, Emily’s angry-mischievous side reared its unpredictable head.

“No.” Reid was terse. “Been there. Done that….Or tried to anyway.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Why does everyone tiptoe around that woman?!” Emily’s eyes snapped with energy that would be put to better use in the field. She was already bored with the paperwork her job required. The discussion with Razz had been a mildly interesting interlude, but it wasn’t enough. The others could tell she was on the verge of creating a way to burn off her excess energy.

“Calm down, Prentiss.” Morgan shuffled a few files, preparing to follow in everyone else’s footsteps and have his own session with Rossi’s therapist friend. “She’s Boss-man’s wife. Poke her with a stick and _he’s_ the one’ll feel it.”

He stood, glancing up at J.J.’s office windows. On his way past, he paused beside Emily’s desk. “Go get lunch or something, if you need to get out of here.” Morgan sighed. “Maybe a case’ll come in this afternoon.”

Crossing her arms, Prentiss leaned back. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll go somewhere for lunch.” She glanced up at his eyes, dark with suspicion. “Go have your talk with Dr. Razz-berry, or whatever his name is. He’s not a bad guy.”

Morgan hesitated just long enough to convey a slight lack of trust. Prentiss caged at a desk was an aggressive adventure waiting to happen. He studied her bland expression, and tried to believe there was nothing rebellious bubbling behind it.

But as Derek ascended the stairway to meet with Razz, he wondered if he could get another call through to Hotch. He wanted to know if the Unit Chief had any advice should a certain female teammate go rogue. As Morgan reached J.J.’s door, his shoulders drooped.

  _Hell, if Prentiss **does** do something, Hotch’ll probably be the first to know. _


	112. Blackbird's Song

Prentiss waited until Morgan stepped through J.J.’s office door, hand extended to introduce himself to the man waiting within.

With brisk movements, ablaze with compressed energy, she hooked her purse over one shoulder and stepped to Morgan’s desk. Eyes scanning the files in his outbox, she grabbed a handful. At the last minute, she shuffled through them, making sure they were reports that _had_ been written by Morgan, _and_ that there was nothing pertaining to the last case with the little girls in the cabin. She breathed out a long, slow exhalation. _Derek’s right. Calm down. You don’t want to bring Hotch something that’ll hurt worse than a gunshot._

“Emily? What are you doing?” J.J.’s voice was sharp, anxious with suspicion.

“Taking Morgan’s advice. Going out for lunch.”

Reid’s eyes were wide with concern. “You don’t need case files for that. And even if you were going to read some while you ate, you wouldn’t take them from Morgan’s outbox.”

“It’s my lunch break, and I’m going out.” An evil grin lifted her lips enough to expose sharp, white canines. “I didn’t say I’d be eating anything.”

“Emily! No!” J.J. rose from her seat. _She might not plan on eating any **thing** , but she’s all primed to take a bite out of someone. I know that look!_

“What…? I’m doing Morgan a favor. He’s in charge now, so he has to sign off on all the reports, _but_ …he can’t sign off on his own. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Emily! Strauss can sign off on Morgan. It doesn’t have to be Hotch!” But J.J.’s attempt to intervene proved ineffective.

With the desperate focus of an escaping felon, Prentiss bolted before any action could be taken, or any new arguments to stop her could be formulated.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Up in J.J.’s office, Morgan saw a blur; something moving fast out of the corner of his eye. Glancing into the bullpen, he noted Prentiss’ absence. His words faltered.

“Something wrong, Mr. Morgan?” A momentary look of concern crossed Razz’s face.

“Oh, man…I hope not.”

A few beats passed before the therapist gave a verbal nudge. “You were saying…?”

“Yeah. Uh,…about Hotch...” The agent pulled his attention back to the conversation newly in progress. “I know you’re not that kind of doc, but how’s he holding up? You know, with his side and being injured and all that…”

Razz watched with professional vision. He saw guilt underlying the concern, and decided to take a page from Dr. Reid’s playbook and avoid wasting time. “He’ll heal. I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s been hurt. But, I’d like you to tell me something, Mr. Morgan.”

“What?”

“What happened? How did Hotch get shot?”

Razz could hear the audible swallow before the agent spoke. “I did it. I shot him. I shot Hotch.” Although the last was said in a soft tone of horror, Morgan’s face had gone blank, stoic.

 _And here’s another one who needs help; damaged on the job._ Razz managed not to grimace, but more and more he was finding his criticism that working with the BAU was a destructive career that eroded the souls of its employees, was proving true. He decided to skirt the issue of confidentiality, using some of what Reid had told him, yet attributing no source.

“Do you think your Unit Chief is the type to pull back, look out for himself instead of someone else who’s in harm’s way or whose life might be hanging in the balance?”

Morgan shook his head, displaying a weary half-grin. “No. Not Hotch. Nothing’s further from the truth. Thinking he can save someone spurs him on like nobody else I know. I don’t even think it’s a conscious decision. Something trips a switch in his brain. His own survival instinct takes a back seat. That’s why I try to…” The agent blinked and went silent, pulling away, settling back into his chair where seconds before he’d been leaning forward.

Razz would have had to be blind to miss the body language.

“Tell me, Mr. Morgan. Just say it out loud and be done with it.”

Derek’s face twisted. The therapist could see the effot it took for him to speak in a calm, although throaty, voice. “I swore to protect him. But I shot my boss. I shot my friend. I shot a man I…I…”

 “ ‘Swore to protect?’ ”

Morgan’s head hung. “Yeah…that,…but…” He finally looked up. “I like him. _Really_ like him…Like him a _lot_ …ya know?”

“I’m sorry.” Razz almost whispered, trying not to intrude on what he suspected was a first-time confession.

“And m’man didn’t even get mad. Was a little surprised, but in the end didn’t question it. Thanked me for it. Thanked me for saving his life. _Thanked_ me for shooting him.”

“Would you rather he blamed you? Punished you somehow?”

“No…no… ‘course not. It’s just that…”

Morgan’s hands were in constant, tortured movement; the fingers twining and knotting. The motion made Razz think of Prentiss picking at her cuticles. _Another one who’s suppressing too much._ He pulled his attention back to the agent’s eyes, suspecting the imminent revelation of something that had been lurking just below the surface for quite some time.

Morgan took a deep, steadying breath. He came to the decision to talk about something he’d consigned to secrecy long ago. But this was for Hotch…for his relationship with Hotch…and it seemed important to explain to this stranger, because in the end, it might save that relationship. There were so few Morgan treasured. But the Unit Chief was one of those rare cases he hoarded away as proof that it was possible to have a healthy bond with another man. It was important to maintain the status quo with Hotch, not just for the sake of working with him, but as part of Morgan’s own very private, very hidden healing process.

“It’s just that when I was a kid, I went through some bad stuff and…and I was raised church, ya know? Every Sunday. But all that faith, all that belief and prayer and trust…didn’t do a damn thing to make it stop. So for a long time I wondered what kind of God would allow stuff like that to happen to a kid. But…” He pulled himself straighter, accepting his own past. “…I came to terms with it. And now…with Hotch…it’s the same thing all over again. What kind of God takes away all your choices and forces you to pull the trigger on…” Morgan’s eyes closed. He went silent.

After a few beats, Razz’s soothing voice broke the quiet. “What is it you want, Mr. Morgan? What would make you feel better about shooting your friend?”

Dry-eyed, Derek considered the question. It didn’t take him long. He met the therapist’s grave regard squarely.

“I want to hurt, too. I want to go through it right along with him. The least I can do is keep him company.”

Razz bit his lip, realizing he’d been allowed into a place where no one else was ever invited. The best he could offer to ease this man’s pain was scant comfort. “That would only make your friend feel worse. The best you can do is lead his team and keep it strong while he’s out, and…keep him up to date on your progress; keep him in the loop. I’m sure he’d like that.”

The therapist knew he was trailing a baited line here; testing for another view on Haley Hotchner. He felt he owed it to her before solidifying the unflattering picture he was getting from Aaron’s team.

_In all fairness, though, Agent Prentiss is another woman and there might be some undercurrent of sexual tension going on that no one wants to acknowledge, and Dr. Reid has some difficulty with social interaction. Hotch’s wife **did** present as a little chilly, but she still paid lip service to the basics of hospitality at our first encounter. These are unusual circumstances. Her mate was hurt at the hands of a team member. So…go slow on condemning the woman. Get all the evidence before passing judgment._

One corner of Morgan’s lips twisted upward, accompanied by words redolent with sarcasm. “Yeah…I’m _sure_ Hotch’s wife would welcome the guy who laid her man out flat. Besides…” The edge left his voice. It sounded bleak. “…I _did_ visit him. I think it just brought up a lot of tension that Hotch shouldn’t have to deal with right now.”

Razz’s brows rose. “Tension?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been there, right?” The response was a single nod. “Did it feel like the kind of place you’d want to hang out?”

“Well…”

“That’s Haley. That’s what she brings to the table. Or the door, if you’re unlucky enough to find her opening it when you knock.” He broke away, eyes straying to the window and the bullpen beyond. “Shouldn’t have said that. Anyway, aren’t we supposed to be talking about Hotch? How’s this gonna help him?”

“You don’t think the atmosphere of his home is important? That it affects him?”

 “Sure it does, but that’s probably only when one of us…one of his team…is there. It’s gotta be different when it’s just him. I can’t see Hotch putting up with being treated second class in his own home.” Morgan sighed, shaking his head. “Fact is, those two are tight. Each one’s got something the other needs. And that’s nobody’s business but Hotch’s.”

After a moment’s silence, during which Razz watched the agent glance at his watch and scan the bullpen, he decided he’d gotten as much information as one such brief session could produce. But he wanted to leave with the thought that he’d helped unknot a little of this man’s guilt.

“I still think you should go over and talk to Aar…uh…Hotch. Tell him what you told me.”

Morgan snorted a mirthless, half-laugh. “Guys don’t say stuff like that to each other.”

“Then…what? You punch each other’s shoulders or cuff each other around a little?”

“Yeah…something like that. But the way things have been going, if I did that, I’d probably put Hotch back in the hospital. Nope…” Morgan pushed himself up and turned toward the door. “…I think I’ll give Boss-man a break from poundin’ on him.”

“I still think you should talk to him, Mr. Morgan.”

“And say what? I’ve already told him I’m sorry. We did talk. Things are okay between us, but I’m never gonna feel right about shooting m’man. Just have to live with it.”

Razz stood up. “I think you should say exactly that. So the two of you know _every_ thing that lies between you, even if those things are okay, as you say.” He extended his hand for a parting shake.

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Mr. Morgan. Now…can you tell me where I might find someone named Garcia?”

Derek nodded, and for the first time, a genuine grin lit up his face.

He was looking forward to seeing Razz’s expression at his first encounter with the tech analyst’s lair-of-many-colors.

 

xxxxxxx

 

 Hotch felt a little better.

The promised grilled cheese with the extra-sharp cheddar had been consumed in companionable almost-silence. Now he and Haley were snuggled close and she was casting surreptitious looks at his side where the bandage bore mute testimony to the dangers of his job.

“I should change that. We have to keep it clean. And when do I need to take you in to have the stitches removed?” She placed a gentle hand over the folded gauze and surgical tape. Not testing, but protective.

“I don’t know if I even need the bandage if I’m staying home. I think that might have been more necessary for traveling to _get_ home.”

“Mmmmmm.” Haley let her hand drift down to rest on Hotch’s hip. “But what about the stitches?”

“End of the week I should have someone look at it, I guess.” He exhaled in a deep, relaxing breath. “I don’t want to think about it right now. And there’s other stuff we need to discuss.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking.” She rubbed her thumb in repetitive arcs over his hipbone, feeling him tense a little in anticipation of what might turn into another argument. Haley hoped what she had to say would reassure him.

“Sweetheart, we _can_ make this work. We _can_ fix it. We both just need to make a few adjustments.”

“Like?”

She could feel stress seeping back into him already. Marital conflict, even when it was in a stage of resolution and cooperative progress, made him nervous. She wasn’t sure exactly why, but supposed it harkened back to his childhood. The warm palm of her hand flattened against him, caressing and soothing his jumpy stomach muscles.

“L-i-k-e…I’ll be polite and respectful of your teammates. And I’ll never enlist them to butt into our private lives again…” _Not that they’d ever help me again; so there’s no chance I’ll renege on that._ “…In return, when you’re home, you’ll really, truly _be_ home. With me. Not poring over cases.” She felt a ripple in his midriff that might have been the beginning of a protest. She nestled in closer, diverting him with a brief, tight hug.

“But if you absolutely _have_ to bring work home, you’ll set definite hours that we’ll agree on together, and once your time is up, you’ll put everything away and really, truly _be_ with me.” Haley paused, holding her breath, waiting for a response. After a moment teetering on the edge of anticipation, she nudged him. “So, what do you think? Can we do that? As a starting point?”

She hadn’t realized Hotch had been holding his breath, too. She felt it whoosh out of him in a long, slow expression of relief.

He nodded. “Yeah.” A blissful grin broke through the somber pall that had been hanging over him. “I think we can.” He nuzzled her right back. “Thank you, Haley.”

“What can I say…” She leaned in and kissed him, licking a crumb of grilled cheese from his chin. “…I’d do anything to keep the man I love happy. I _do_ love you. So, so much.”

“I love you, too.”

They exhaled, melting into each other, believing they now had a viable plan to serve as a starting point in making their marriage and their lives easier. It only lasted a moment, though.

The doorbell rang. Loud. Insistent. Confident it would be answered.

Both Hotchners groaned. Haley struggled up and out. Giving her husband an appreciative look, she pattered down the stairs. Halfway down, she heard Aaron’s phone buzz for attention and heard the faint mumble as he answered. She shook her head, grinning. _Never a moment’s rest, but even so, he didn’t resurrect any of the things he could blame me for…yet...I'm safe for now._

Still smiling at what she considered a triumph, Haley threw the door wide…

…and froze.

“Yeah, Hotch, I’m right outside. Just gotta see you for a minute…” Emily Prentiss stood on the welcome mat, speaking into her phone, making sure Hotch’s wife couldn’t dismiss her as easily as she had Reid.

Haley’s smile faded as Emily’s widened, showing some very sharp teeth. And far too many of them.


	113. Biddy Pecking Duel

Haley felt a rush of nausea.

The recently-consumed grilled cheese wasn’t getting along with the sudden deluge of stomach acid triggered by the appearance of Prentiss on the doormat. Adding insult to injury was the chirpy, happy, all too _familiar_ manner in which the agent was speaking to Aaron. It set Haley’s teeth on edge.

“Yeah…no…she just answered the door, so I’ll be up in a minute.” Prentiss closed her phone and subjected Hotch’s wife to a smile that had nothing of friendliness to it. Nor did it reach the agent’s coal-black eyes. She brandished the sheaf of folders gripped in one hand.

“Hi, Haley. Gotta see Hotch. Work stuff.”

Haley blinked. Having made it clear to the men on Aaron’s team that they were not welcome, and barely tolerated, in her home, she’d assumed the word would have filtered down to the distaff portion of the BAU profilers that their leader’s domestic venue was off limits. Haley hadn’t expected to have to make good on her part of the agreement to respect and show courtesy to Aaron’s coworkers so soon…if ever.

She swallowed the bile in her throat and rallied like the true daughter of Southern aristocrats that she was. Unbowed. Unbeaten. _Better_ than the black-clad travesty of femininity standing before her, baring her teeth in a wide, uncontrolled way that no true lady would. Greeting her boss’ wife as though they were equals when they barely knew each other.

“I prefer ‘Mrs. Hotchner’…but _you’re_ a ‘Miss’ aren’t you? Or is ‘Ms.’ still the preferred for women who haven’t managed to marry?”

Haley’s wide-eyed delivery of what her cultural upbringing considered one of the biggest insults that could be conferred upon a woman, lilted as sweetly as if it had come from the throat of a honeysuckle blossom. In her mind that made it okay; she didn’t sound shrewish, so if this Prentiss woman thought she was being rude, it was just a matter of individual interpretation.

“It’s ‘Agent,’ _Ma’am_. Do you mind ‘Ma’am?’” Prentiss blatted the honorific in a flat, unforgiving tone. “I know some women take offense. Makes them feel old, I guess.”

Emily shrugged as though such worries were years and years away for her. The seemingly offhand remark managed to make Haley wonder if maybe she was ready to consider a wrinkle-fighting complexion regime. Prentiss saw the barb hit home and smiled inwardly. Nonetheless, she kept Morgan’s warning words in mind. Poking at the wife might end up hurting the husband.

The agent pulled back, trying to keep her words civil. But there was nothing she could do to control the dialogue running through her mind.

“Mrs. Hotchner, I need him…” Prentiss lifted her chin, indicating the upstairs where she was sure Hotch was enduring his medical leave. “…to sign a few things.” _Look_ , _Haley-poo, I’d love to stand around and trade recipes or whatever it is you do all day, but…_

It wasn’t the words. It was the audacity to show up at all that rankled Haley. She could feel her buttons being pushed. It infuriated her. She  could feel her control slipping away along with her assurances to Aaron. _And it hasn’t even been an hour since I made them!_ Her eyes narrowed. _And it’s all this…this… **creature’s** fault! How can Aaron expect me to be polite and respectful to…to… **this**!!_

Still, with a reluctance that made it seem her joints were gritty with iron filings, Haley extended her hand. “My husband is, um, _indisposed_.” She lowered her glance, looking bashful.

To her mother’s contemporaries the subtext would have been picked up without missing a beat: _‘We just had sex. Leave us alone.’_ Even if it wasn’t true, she felt it was the perfect way to draw a line in the sand, telling this visitor that she was on Hotchner turf now, _not_ at the BAU. It also emphasized the personal bond between spouses that no teammate would ever share.

Prentiss maintained eye contact as she nodded toward her phone. “He’s expecting me.” _I dare you to keep me out. Hotch’s in charge here, too…not just you._

Haley bit back the retort she wanted to make. Instead, she offered a sugary smile, while still blocking the doorway, still proffering her hand. “Just tell me what he needs to do and I’ll bring them right back.”

“Ohhhh…” Prentiss recoiled, keeping the files out of Haley’s reach. “…sorry, but I’m acting as a courier; have to deliver them into Hotch’s hand and be there to take them back from him.” Her sigh was regretful. “You know: top secret, confidential, FBI business. No intermediaries allowed. Sorry.” _Let. Me. See. Him._

Both women were aware a power play was in progress. For Haley, it was a matter of defending her position and importance as the wife of the BAU Unit Chief. For Prentiss, it was to demonstrate that no matter his location or circumstances, a part of Hotch was Bureau property. Plus, it had grated on Emily that Morgan, Reid and Garcia had had to suffer Haley’s ill treatment. Morgan could take care of himself, but Reid and Garcia didn’t know how to play the game at which Hotch’s wife excelled. And although Prentiss could excuse some of the woman’s behavior, attributing it to insecurity, she could detect an underlying quality that enraged her.

Haley enjoyed the power that could bring tears to Garcia’s eyes; enjoyed inflicting bruises on Reid’s tender self-esteem. Prentiss would have none of it. She kept herself in check out of respect for Hotch and concern for any fallout the encounter might inflict on him. _There’s no meanness in him. If she ever turned on him, or wanted to punish him, he’d be as vulnerable as Reid or Penelope. She’d know just how to shred his soul._

So Prentiss didn’t do her worst, but she nonetheless stood firm in her mission to demonstrate to Haley that there were people in the world who refused to be bullied.

The two women faced off, while upstairs…

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had begun scrambling for clothing as soon as he’d ended the call from Prentiss.

He wanted to be in something more substantial than his underwear. Considering he only had a few minutes before he expected to hear footsteps approaching, the best he could manage was sweatpants and a fleece hoodie that was usually part of his jogging ensemble. He struggled his way into them and then sat on the edge of the bed, regaining his breath and trying to look more vital and competent than he felt.

After several minutes passed with no sound of Prentiss’ boots on the stairs, Hotch frowned.

After a few more, he wondered if he’d misunderstood the agent’s call. He could have sworn she’d been at the door and had said that Haley had just opened…. His stomach did an anxious little flip that made him regret the extra cheese on his sandwich.

 _Haley? You said you’d be nice…_ As quickly as the suspicion surfaced, Hotch banished it. He was making an unfair assumption. _They could be chatting. Or Haley could have offered Prentiss coffee. Or…_ But a corner of his brain was screeching in a manic voice… _Or they could be locked in that weird, mean, sarcastic thing women do…_ He didn’t want to believe it. There was only one way to find out.

Hotch grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Agent Prentiss, this is our home. My husband is hurt. I don’t think it’s asking too much for you to respect his privacy. So…if you’ll just…” Haley reached for the files again, determined to stand her ground in spite of the smoldering look in this visitor’s eyes.

“No. I came to see Hotch. I just spoke with him…?” Prentiss brought her cell between them, meeting Haley’s stern regard over the rim of its casing. “He sounded fine and…”

Her phone buzzed. A quick glance at caller ID brought a broad grin to her face. “Well, speak of the devil…. Hey, Hotch.” She turned slightly to the side, but glanced back at Haley, making it clear that she was under discussion. “…No, we’re just talking. I’m on my way up.” Her dark eyes bored into Haley’s. “Sorry we kept you waiting.”

With a triumphant click, Prentiss folded her phone away. “Hale…uh…Mrs. Hotchner? I really need to finish up here and get back to work.” _You lose. Now out of my way._

Lips drawn into a grim line, the lady of the house stepped back, leaving barely enough room for the grinning agent to push by her. _Alright, but this isn’t over. When I see you out, I’m going make a few things clear. And I’ll be perfectly polite while doing so for Aaron’s sake… **NOT** yours!_

Moving at a more sedate, if somewhat defeated pace, Haley trailed after Prentiss. She couldn’t help noticing that the agent was bouncing up the stairs with a spring in her step.

Frowning, Mrs. Hotchner picked up speed. ‘Top secret’ business or not, she would not allow that woman to be alone with her husband for even one second.


	114. Of Brilliant Plumage

An inscrutable half-smile tipping his lips up at the corners, Morgan escorted Razz down to IT.

When he threw wide the door accessing Garcia’s lair, however, there was no mistaking the bright, white, genuine joy as his smile spread to a painfully-wide grin. “Baby Girl! Wan’cha to meet someone. Friend of Rossi’s.” Morgan stepped back, ushering the therapist before him. “This is Dr…uh…”

“Razz. Just plain Razz.” It was all the therapist could manage at the moment. Head turning, craning to see every surface of this highly customized space and its equally unique inhabitant, his own smile was growing in an unstoppable show of appreciation. _My God! How did this get past those federal workplace watchdogs?! It looks like Tinkerbell threw up in here! This is great!_

To Razz, this room and this employee were flying in the face of authority in a way he thoroughly approved and believed would never have been allowed to exist in the Bureau of his day. At last, his eyes settled on the comfortable-in-her-own-skin woman who was reveling in his reaction.

Morgan was enjoying the show, too, but duty called. “This is Penelope Garcia. She’s our tech analyst and…” He nodded in affectionate acknowledgement. “…the candle in our window that guides us home.”

“Oh!” Garcia’s hand fluttered over her heart. The misty look she gave Derek expressed her gratitude for the special place she occupied with her team. Taking a breath, she addressed the stranger in their midst. “Razz? That’s a very cool name.” Garcia noted the therapist’s bemused expression as he continued to study his surroundings, as well as take surreptitious glances at her.

“You’ll find nicknames are Penelope’s specialty.” Morgan would have liked to stay, but… “I gotta get back to work. You let me know when he needs an escort back, Mama?”

“Sure. Sure.” Garcia was already pushing a beribboned canister of Tootsie Pops toward her guest.

Morgan exited, closing the reinforced steel door after him. In the wake of the serious discussion that had touched on areas he’d prefer kept private, he had needed that brief taste of Garcia.

She always managed to leave an afterglow; a gift he could bask in, taking it with him like a portable sunlamp for the soul.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hurry as Haley might, she couldn’t keep up with Prentiss’ longer legs and more practical footgear.

She reached the bedroom scant seconds behind, but it was enough for the agent to have already taken a position very close to Hotch, and be talking in an entirely too familiar tone. Worse was the open, guileless face of her husband looking up at his teammate; eyes seeming too vulnerable without a scowl, mouth lacking grim lines of command; instead smiling in pleasant, if curious, welcome. And Prentiss was already mid-sentence.

“…a little better, but still kinda pale. How’d’you feel?”

“I’m okay. How are things going? Does Morgan need any help? And what’s this you want from me?” Hotch raised his brows at the bundle of folders in Emily’s hand. “Have a seat. Show me…”

For a moment Haley entertained the horrific vision of Prentiss sitting on the bed beside Aaron, snuggling up close. _Our bed!_ Moving so fast it was more reflex than thought, she slid in beside her husband, draping one arm across the back of his shoulders, and settling the other on his midriff in a very tactile demonstration of ownership.

Prentiss had snagged a chair and was moving it closer to the couple perched on the mattress edge. She hid her amusement at Haley’s maneuver. _Desperate to mark your territory much?_ She took her seat and paused before handing Hotch the paperwork she’d brought, making sure he saw her looking at his wife’s hand exploring the terrain of his ribs and chest. As she knew it would, her glance made Hotch uncomfortable, feeling as though his personal life were on display. After the ghastly realization that the team had been keeping track of his and Haley’s baby-making efforts, it was an area to which he was particularly sensitive.

To Prentiss’ gleeful delight, Hotch placed a hand over his wife’s, arresting its constant motion, removing it with gentle care and placing it back in her lap, giving it a squeeze before releasing it by way of apology. Seeing the glint in Emily’s eye, he went one further in hopes of distracting her from the sight of her boss having been felt-up. “Prentiss, would you like anything? Coffee?”

Emily _didn’t_ want anything, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to taunt Haley. “Uh, yeah! Coffee’d be great!”

“Honey? Could we have some, please?” In blissful ignorance of the subtext ricocheting between the two women, Hotch turned innocent eyes on his wife.

With a narrow glare that skewered Prentiss and baffled her husband, Haley rose. She managed a reasonably sweet smile, but let the agent know how she felt by making a show of pushing through the space separating the two on her way out, almost treading on Prentiss’ toes.

Emily controlled her merriment. _Yes, that’s right, Haley. I’m alone with your husband. How will we ever control ourselves!?_

Feeling more comfortable now that no one was fondling him in a possessive display, Hotch nodded at the files. “So, what is this?”

“Morgan’s reports. He can’t sign off on his own, so I thought I’d run them by; kill a few birds with one stone.” Hotch took the files, but gave Prentiss a questioning look. She responded, “You know…get a superior to okay these, _and_ see how you’re doing. The place isn’t the same without you. Team misses you. Oh…and that doctor guy, the friend of Rossi’s…he’s there talking to everyone.”

“Got a pen?” Hotch waited until Emily had fished one out of her purse and handed it to him. “You know, you could have had Strauss do this. Didn’t have to come all this way.”

Prentiss shrugged. She would have let it go at that, but she heard Haley’s rapid returning footsteps and couldn’t resist raising her voice enough to be heard in the hallway. “I know. But, like I said…miss you.”

“Nice to be missed.” Hotch murmured, continuing to work his way through the stack, completely oblivious to the thunderous expression on Haley’s face as she stood in the doorway holding a tray bearing scalding hot cups of coffee.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Much to Garcia’s delight, Razz was prowling the perimeter, inspecting her lair’s décor. Every once in a while he’d stop and give particular attention to a toy or ornament, his approval written across his features in a grin that spoke of enchantment and nostalgia.

A great many of the tech analyst’s additions to her workspace harkened back to Razz’s heyday.

He extended a finger, stroking the cottony, lemon-yellow hair of a troll doll. “You must have haunted every vintage boutique and thrift store from here to San Francisco to accumulate all this.” It was said in tones of wonder.

“Not quite. But I started collecting early. Always was attracted to the quirkier, happier byproducts of the 60s. This represents hours and days and weeks and years of happy hunting.”

“I can see that, but…” Razz turned his attention ceiling-ward where strings of pink and white fairy lights glistened along the edges like fanciful molding. “…how did you manage to get them to let you do this?”

“Ahhhh…that’s easy.” Garcia assumed a very smug expression. “One word; my secret weapon: the Hotch-rocket. He’s never come out and admitted it, but I know he’s gone to bat for me…ohhhh…lots of times, really.” Her brightly glossed lips smiled with fond memories. “Our Beautiful Prince of the Realm doesn’t just have great hair and GQ style, he’s got a 24 carat heart.”

Razz did a slow turn, fixing his professional regard on the woman dressed to match her sparkling environment, studying her for a moment. “Most people don’t talk about their boss that way.”

“Most people don’t work for someone like Hotch.”

It was simple and sincere. And it opened up the way for all sorts of speculation.

“May I be frank, Ms. Garcia?”

“You can be anyone you want, but it’d be a shame to abandon an uber-cool name like Razz.” Her face was alight with humor.

Even though the wordplay was as vintage as the mood ring on Penelope’s finger, the therapist couldn’t help smiling. _Either she has a crush on Aaron or she’s just one of those people whose heart expands to include every acquaintance and who carries a little alchemical magic that turns them to friends, if they’re worthy. If they’re lucky._

“On a scale of one-to-ten, how much do you like your boss?”

Garcia knew exactly what she was being asked, and wasn’t surprised or offended. “Off the scales, off the charts, with every beat of my be-spectacled heart, I _love_ Hotch. _But_ …” Her small, meaningful smile reassured Razz that he hadn’t overstepped his bounds. “…I’m not _in_ love with him. I love all my teammates. They’re the best. And together they’re just…just…” Garcia’s eyes filled. “…just…Well, you have _no_ idea how special…how…just… _no_ idea...”

It was as good an opening as any. The therapist pulled up a nearby chair. “You’re right. I don’t. But I’d like to, so maybe you can tell me.”

As inviting as Razz’s smile and body language were, the real reason Garcia decided to tell all was the way he’d enjoyed her trinkets and toys.

She sensed a soul mate, and spoke accordingly.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi looked at the email Garcia had sent him minutes before Razz and Morgan had headed toward IT.

It was brief, but filled with links.

It was also titled in true Garcia fashion: “How to Hunt a Hotch, or The Trap of Tender Tears and Tethers.”

There was no preamble nor explanation. Only the digital copy of the memo granting Aaron what amounted to an open-ended medical leave, followed by the list of what must be the trail resulting in the memo’s creation.

Rossi could tell what most of the links were without accessing them. They delineated the trail of minor functionaries and departments that kept track of insurance concerns, aggregate sick days and vacation time, payroll adjustments, dispersion of inter-office communications. Like ripples radiating outward from a dropped pebble, multiple areas of the Bureau rode the swell and contributed their part to satisfy regulations.

The links seemed to follow reverse chronological order as much as was possible, ending with the copy of the memo itself; the final recognition that all steps had been followed and Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner was accounted for and tucked neatly away.

So the link at the bottom of the list was the one that interested Rossi most. It was the starting point; the place from which all the others grew, like sprouts on a governmental bean stalk that kept growing and growing and… _Stop delaying. Open it._

Dave was reluctant. He didn’t want to find what he suspected was proof that Haley had meddled in Hotch’s career. In the back of his mind he could still see his friend’s hurt and despair when he’d found his wife had participated in sharing their desire to start a family with the team. And the same pain had attended Aaron’s discovery that Haley had delved into his childhood on her own. As far as Rossi was concerned, if the woman was also behind this gambit to sideline Hotch for as long as possible…it would be strike three.

He studied the link, realizing it was an audio feed. Lips pressed thin, Rossi held his breath and tapped the line of code.

A moment of silence. A few electronic clicks. And Haley’s voice vibrated through Rossi’s office. His shoulders lowered, his head bowed as he listened to a woman plead and cry and reach the edge of hysteria, begging on her husband’s behalf. The worst part was that it sounded as though Hotch was the one wavering on the verge of instability, pushing his wife to this desperate measure in order to salvage something of the wreck he’d become…the wreck he was doing a damn good job of hiding from his superiors.

Rossi ran a weary hand over his face.

_Strike three, Haley. You’re out._


	115. Cheep Comfort

Rossi slumped in his chair, staring disconsolately at the image on his monitor.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. _So now what? Hotch already knows someone messed with his leave…extended it. Do I tell him I have proof it was Haley? Do I let him hear this?_

Pulling himself together, Rossi studied the list of links. _Maybe Hotch isn’t the one I should bring this to. Maybe I should talk to Haley._ He ran a hand over tired eyes. _And as long as I’m wading through a whole bunch of ‘maybes,’ maybe she doesn’t know how bad this is, how it makes Aaron sound like he’s hanging on by a thread, but…_ He shook his head, drumming his fingers on the finely-tooled leather of his desk blotter. _…but dammit! I’m tired of trying to find excuses for what that woman does!_

Glancing out into the bullpen, he saw everyone accounted for except Prentiss, whom he suspected was either in the restroom or the kitchen. _No sign of Razz, so he’s probably still with Garcia._

Resenting the time Haley’s games were taking from the things he should be working on… _You know…minor matters…murder, rape, kidnapping, terrorism…_ Rossi palmed his phone and contemplated the keypad. After a moment, he put the device down, pushing it across the desktop as though to remove temptation from his grasp.

_No. Think about this. Think about who you talk to and what you say, and think about how far you take it, or even if you take action at all._

Rossi pulled some consult files from the stack awaiting his expertise. Bending to the task, he relegated the Hotchners to the back of his mind where he trusted letting things ferment for a bit would allow the best course of action, or non-action, to rise to the top. He grimaced, banishing Hotch’s wife with a final assessment.

_That woman is a squid. She exudes ink. Then sits back while it spreads and darkens whatever it seeps into. And everyone’s so busy dealing with the mess that they don’t see her floating around behind it. Or at least Hotch doesn’t._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“I can’t really break it down for you.”

Garcia felt at ease with her visitor. She’d dipped into her special stash of cocoa. Now, both were semi-reclining, feet up, enjoying mugs of frothy chocolate with Penelope’s signature addition: tiny, pink marshmallows bobbing in the brew.

“It’s a chemistry thing. You put all of them together and something happens that’s just…just...” Emotion filled her eyes.

“Indescribable?” Razz’s easy grin turned what might have been criticism or banter into understanding.

“Exactly. But why are you here? Really?”

The large, brown eyes regarding him over the rim of a cup were unexpectedly shrewd. _Warm, but a lot sharper than I bet most people give her credit for when they first meet her._ “I’m here because Dave asked me.”

“W-h-y?”

The way the question was drawled, like a small child pestering a parent, and determined to repeat herself until she received a satisfactory answer, made Razz chuckle. It also made him consider taking this woman into his confidence.

“Because he thought I might be able to help.”

“And we need help? Or…” Revelation made Garcia’s eyes widen. “…wait a minute.” She stared at the therapist. He fancied he could see the synapses connecting, a rare combination of logic and intuition colliding and leading to… “This is for Hotch, isn’t it! It is! It’s for our Gorgeous G-man, our Foxy Fed!”

Razz shook his head, thoroughly enjoying this weird and whimsical break compared to the serious demeanor the other agents presented. “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“The nicknames. What’s up with that? They’re inventive, but…what’s the impulse?”

“Well…” The tech analyst blinked, considering something she’d never bothered to explore. After a moment, she tilted her head, giving Razz thoughtful consideration. “I guess nicknames are more acceptable than hugs. You can slip a lot of them past someone like Hotch, when you wouldn’t be able to get away with hugging him.” The light dimmed in Garcia’s face. She looked down into her cup of cocoa, voice going soft. “I should know.”

The change in demeanor was like waving a flag in front of Razz’s professional sensibilities. He matched her lower, sadder tone. “What happened just now? Something changed.”

“Oh…” She took a deep breath, letting it out in a long, slow exhale. “Nothing. Just thinking about hugs brought up something not so, uh, _nice_.” She rallied, smile returning. “Not your problem.”

“I wish you’d tell me anyway.” Razz studied Garcia with obvious concern. “I’m the guy it’s safe to dump on, ‘cause there won’t be any official reports and ‘cause if you just say the word, I’ll never tell another soul. Cross my heart.” He made the time-honored gesture: an ‘X’ over his chest, accompanied by an encouraging smile.

Penelope chewed on her bottom lip for a few seconds, weighing pros and cons and other possibilities. “Tell you what, Razz…I’ll give you the story of hugs and why they can be sad, if you’ll come completely, squeaky clean and give _me_ the story about why you’re really here.” She met his eyes. “C’mon. I know it’s not for the team. I love every one of them, but a guy stopping by to talk for half an hour isn’t gonna do anything to help my babies…ya know?”

Razz studied the contents of his cup, and came to a decision, especially since the tech analyst had already divined who he was really here for. “I can’t tell you everything. There’s that whole confidentiality issue in play. Besides, if I spilled my guts to you, how could you trust me not to do the same about you to someone else?”

“Fair enough. Then tell me what you can. Okay?”

Razz nodded. “Okay. Can I invoke the ‘ladies first’ clause?” He’d been smiling, but the expression faded as he saw the glittery, scintillating quality about the woman before him power down. He sipped his drink in silence, giving her whatever time she needed to formulate words.

Garcia set her cup down. She ran a fingertip over the depiction of rainbows and stars splashed across it, only glancing at the therapist occasionally to gage his reactions to her words.

“There’s not much to tell. And I know I let small, stupid things get to me more than they should, but…” She cleared her throat, trying to keep it from tightening in remembrance of a hug gone wrong. “…but I do little things, little favors I guess you could call them, for my babies, because the things they go through…what they have to see and do out there…they just…well, they need little gestures to let them know they’re loved and that good things are waiting for them back here, no matter what happens out _there_ …and…and…”

Garcia batted her eyes, hoping to stave off tears. She had a feeling they would be unproductive in trying to get her story across. “…and Hotch is the worst when it comes to getting hurt and he never seems to expect nice things to happen or little treats to be waiting for him, so I’ve been leaving him little things to eat on his desk because he stays here so late after a case and after everyone else goes home…so this one time he caught me doing it, and…and…I don’t know what it was…I still don’t…but something had upset him and he was going to cry, and Hotch _never_ cries, and he started to, and it was just one tear, but a stupid loaf of banana bread or a dumb nickname wasn’t enough…so I…I… _hugged_ him…” Garcia darted a glance at her guest, wondering if he was following her rapid-fire delivery.

For his part, Razz was fascinated that anyone could cram so much into such a seemingly disorganized, breathless run-on sentence. He didn’t dare interrupt.

“…and it wasn’t a romantic hug or anything, but…but…his wife…Haley…Mrs. Hotchner…walked in on it and I think she got the wrong idea…and…and…well…” Garcia began to run out of steam, slowing down. “…we’d been doing so much for her over the last few months that I thought we were kind of friends, but she…she…well…” Penelope's voice diminished to a breathy whisper. “Anyway, that’s...that's how hugs can go wrong.” She looked Razz full in the eyes. It was impossible for him to miss the moisture gathering in hers.

The therapist didn’t need to hear more.

_And that makes it unanimous. Mrs. Aaron Hotchner has left her mark on every member of her husband’s team. So. I guess there’s still one more person I need to talk to if I want the bigger picture. Maybe I should have started with her. Maybe the BAU isn’t the most destructive influence in Aaron’s world._

Razz stood, set his cup off to the side and went to kneel by a trembling, misty Garcia. “Thank you for telling me. And just so you know, your instincts are good; your Hotch could use some comfort. _Most_ people could do with a few more hugs.”

Then Razz paid homage to his belief by giving Garcia a good, long, comforting one.

 


	116. Duck!

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t the type to sign anything without a thorough understanding of what his signature would accomplish.

His was a meticulous, legally-honed mind. It dovetailed nicely with his slight tendency toward Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. These traits rarely antagonized or frustrated anyone who encountered them. They were most prominent in his personal grooming and his attention to detail on the work front.

So Prentiss wasn’t surprised when Hotch seemed to forget where he was or who else shared his space. She was amused by the way he bent lower and lower over the files she’d brought, working through each one; at one point giving his nose an absentminded swipe, unaware of the inky streak left behind on its patrician bridge as he did so. With bed-tousled hair, in sweats and a hoodie, Hotch pored over the reports, looking more like a boy puzzling through his algebra homework than a BAU Unit Chief.

Prentiss was enjoying the sight, feeling almost fond of the picture her boss presented in these less official surroundings, when Haley appeared in the doorway, a thunderous scowl preceding her. Also preceding her was the tray she bore, topped by cups over which hovered columns of steam, proclaiming their contents to be very hot indeed.

The women’s eyes locked.

One side of Haley’s mouth quirked upward. It gave her expression a smug, almost diabolical aspect. Prentiss was instantly alert, sensing some form of payback in the offing. But anything Hotch’s wife could dish up would pale before the dangers Prentiss faced on a daily basis. Emily’s mind and body were professionally primed to react to threatening situations almost before they occurred.

So when Haley approached, Prentiss wasn’t sure why, but she felt herself tense, ready to spring. Her eyes dropped to the slippers which seemed to be Haley’s indoor footwear-of-choice: three inch high, satin mules. Each one decorated with a puff of pastel ostrich fluff.  The agent’s lip curled. She could appreciate fashion, but something about the fluttering delicacy made her think of cultures and times when women were confined to their homes and celebrated their idle status with the most impractical garb men could design for them. Prentiss didn’t know why she was so focused on the absurd, little things. _Maybe ‘cause Garcia might appreciate them…as a joke…_

Then, in a split second, Emily understood why they drew her attention. Something about the way Haley was scuffing them into the carpet pile was intentional. And then…

…Hotch’s wife ‘accidentally’ tripped, tilting the tray and its scalding burden toward her husband’s teammate, the woman whose mere presence called forth all her own insecurities…the woman who represented the part of Aaron’s world from which she herself was barred.

A flurry of activity ensued.

First and quickest was Prentiss. She twisted to one side with cat-like agility. Adrenaline pumping, everything seemed to move in slow motion, giving her plenty of time to make notes and assess the situation. Like the proficient agent she was, her primary focus was on her assailant. The play of expressions across Haley’s features told Emily all she needed. The woman’s initial tinge of malevolence had given way to satisfaction as the coffee flew at its target, and then to shock as that target eluded the boiling beverage, ending up in dismay as the final outcome played itself out.

Prentiss’ eyes narrowed. _She **meant** to do this._

Second to react was Haley herself. She’d been so intent on her performance that she’d underestimated her adversary. Concentrating on exactly where she should ‘trip’ and how much forward motion should propel her apparent loss of control of the coffee service, she hadn’t seen the keen wariness in Prentiss’ regard that would have told her she’d been found out; her tactics laid bare. Her eyes had widened in grudging admiration at how quickly Emily had moved. Haley’s regret was genuine when she saw the dark liquid stain the chair cushion vacated by her quarry, as well as leaving its mark on the carpet, the bedspread, and…

…Hotch was the last to realize his predicament. Engrossed in the work he missed so much, savoring each word of each report, his first clue that something was amiss was the burning-hot pain as coffee spattered across him. With a yelp, his body acted instinctively, twisting to the side in much the same way Prentiss had. But there was a reason Agent Hotchner was on leave: his body couldn’t react with the usual grace and strength that kept him safe in the field. The sudden, wrenching movement tore at his already damaged side, sending bolts of pain coursing through him, robbing him of the ability to save himself.  

“Hotch!”

“Aaron!”

Both women knelt beside the innocent victim who had fetched up against the side of the bed on the floor, curled in on himself, emitting small noises; something between gasps and whimpers.

“Aaron! Sweetheart! Are you alright?!” Haley grasped Hotch’s shoulders, intending to pull him out of his fetal position.

Prentiss grabbed her wrists, stopping her and winning a hate-filled glare. “Don’t touch him!”

“Let….Go….” Haley gritted the words out. “This is _my_ husband in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Let him alone.” Emily pushed aside her desire to lash out at the woman in favor of helping Hotch. “He’s trying to breathe through the pain. Let him. He’ll be okay in a couple of minutes.” She lowered her voice and hoped her Unit Chief was too preoccupied to hear words meant for his spouse. “And believe me… _no_ one can forget you’re his wife. Why the _hell_ did you pull such a dumb stunt, Haley?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was bringing you coffee.”

Prentiss’ sneer of utter contempt told the lady of the house that even if she held to her story, the only one in the room who might buy it was Aaron.

“Yeah. Right.” Emily looked down at Hotch, noting that his breathing was evening out and he wasn’t clutching his own midriff quite so tightly. “Hey…Hotch…” To Haley’s extreme displeasure, the agent laid gentle fingers along one side of her boss’ jaw, gaining his attention. “Think you can get back up on the bed? We’re gonna help you.” She glared at Haley, daring the woman to prevent her from aiding in the attempt to get Hotch up from the floor.

“I’m okay. I’m okay…” Pain-glazed eyes that pleaded for an explanation scanned both women’s faces. “What _was_ that?”

The answers were simultaneous, running over each other. “Your wife’s coffee.” “I tripped.”

Prentiss shook her head. _Let’s just get him up and make sure he’s good to go. We can play Haley’s reindeer games later._ “C’mon, Hotch…up.”

They perched him on the edge of the mattress, Prentiss enduring Haley’s angry glances the entire time. _I guess she’ll have to disinfect him after I leave. Can’t have another woman’s touch defiling your property, can you, you idiot…_

Haley’s hands fluttered at her husband’s side, making nervous, little plucking motions at his t-shirt hem. “Oh, God, Sweetheart, do you think you tore the stitches again?” Her outrage was palpable when Prentiss batted her hands away.

“Let me check. Hold still Hotch.”

“ _Miss Prentiss?_ What do you think you’re _doing_!?” Haley’s voice rose.

Emily didn’t miss a beat pulling up her boss’ shirt. “Unless they taught you how to field dress a wound in whatever charm school you attended, Mrs. Hotchner, I suggest you let me see if he needs immediate care.” She gave Haley a bitter, sidelong look. “Wouldn’t want him to suffer more than he already has from your _tripping_ , would you?”

Hotch’s eyes flicked from one to the other. He was beginning to pick up more of that unpleasant atmospheric disturbance he’d felt when Haley had caught Garcia hugging him. _Oh, no. Not again._ He thought about shooing them both away, but Prentiss’ efficient hands made short work of removing the bandage. She bent close, inspecting his injury with a clinical air.

After a moment, she turned, holding out the used gauze and surgical tape to Haley. “Looks okay. Maybe you should let it breathe; leave the dressing off.”

Hotch nodded. He’d recovered his breath and was taking rueful stock of the coffee-stained areas of his clothing. “No permanent damage. I’m okay. Thanks, Prentiss.”

“No problem.” She began picking up the scattered files, sending more dark looks toward Haley. Then, a small, menacing smile touched her lips. “Listen, Hotch. Why don’t I leave these with you so you can go over them at your leisure?” Prentiss looked up, feigning sudden inspiration. “I know! One of the others can stop by to pick them up this evening. Garcia…or J.J…or…oh, yeah…Reid! He tried to see you the other night, but didn’t make it through the door. So how ‘bout it? Sound doable?”

Haley was having trouble breathing, but she choked when Aaron, still sounding a little strained…agreed.

“Doable. Sure. Sounds good. Thanks again, Prentiss.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Your turn. Why are you _really_ here?”

Garcia had pulled herself together. She’d thoroughly enjoyed Razz’s hug and confiding in him had felt like a healthy release, but now she wanted him to fulfill his part of the bargain. She’d revealed a very personal encounter with her boss and his wife that told the therapist a great deal more than she suspected about the dynamics of Hotch’s home life. Now, it was his turn.

Cups of cocoa replenished and pinkly marshmallowed, Penelope waited.

 “I’m here as one friend helping another.” The therapist relaxed into his chair, pleased for the opportunity to examine his own motives.

With the situation surrounding Aaron thickening, Razz felt it would be beneficial to express some of his own thoughts. Telling another person usually meant you had to organize and structure the random things flying about inside your skull. _And isn’t that what psychologists count on? Leading the patient to discover the meaning, the basis for his own conflicting emotions and ideas?_ He smiled to himself. _‘Physician heal thyself.’ So I need someone to talk to as well. Someone who isn’t as close to me or to Aaron as Dave._

Garcia’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “I’m extra-super-good at puzzles, Razz. I know the friend is Rossi and I know he wants you to help Hotch. But…what I really want to know is…are you gonna do any good for My Liege? He looks all clean and clear on the outside, but inside he’s…he’s…” Her empathic heart surged with sympathy. “..he’s all messed up, but it’s a beautiful mess. Like a kaleidoscope, you know? A big muddle of things that still manage to fall out into one-of-a-kind patterns that can take your breath away.”

Razz let his smile express his appreciation of this totally unexpected Bureau employee.

“All I can do…all any therapist can do…is lay out an array of tools and hope the person they’re meant for will be diligent in discovering their use.” He leaned his head back, fixing Garcia with a solemn regard. “Normally I’d spend a lot more time getting to know someone I wanted to help. I’m in the same position as any patient, with one major difference: I have to _find_ the tools I need in order to be able to provide them…to set out that array before the guy I want to help.”

“Well…what tools does Hotch need?” Garcia couldn’t imagine doing Razz’s job. She didn’t like to delve into the deep places of people’s minds. She preferred to skip across the surface, flitting like a dragonfly, seeing reflections of beauty and goodness shine forth like hidden gems. Not for her the dark, shadowed depths.

“He needs the same tools we all do; ones that will help him carve out a place where he can feel safe, where he can let go of the ugliness that saturates this job, where he can be reminded of why he does all _this_ …” Razz glanced around the room, indicating the entire Bureau. “…so he can feel good about the tradeoff, about having to deal with the dregs of humanity.” He shook his head, sipping his cocoa. “Not sure what tools I can find that’ll work for him.”

Garcia blinked. “But that’s easy!”

The therapist’s frown was puzzled, inviting explanation.

Penelope smiled. “It’s people. It’s like fighting fire with fire. The ‘dregs’ need to be counteracted with all the good anti-dregs in the world. It’s all about the people around him.”

Razz looked thoughtful. He’d hoped this discussion would clarify his own thoughts and all the information he’d gleaned from talking to Aaron and his teammates. In a way, it had. He agreed with the basic premise of Garcia’s theory.

The only problem was that the people surrounding Hotch weren’t all positive influences.

 _And once again, it comes back to his wife. I need to talk to Mrs. Hotchner before I go any further._ He gave a deep sigh. _And I’m really not looking forward to it, which tells me a lot. But if Aaron’s wife is the problem, there’s no tool on earth I can give him. Because he won’t be able to fix things on his own. She’ll have to roll up her sleeves and pick up a few tools herself._

_And she doesn’t strike me as a lady who does that kind of work._

 


	117. Ladyhawk

“Is something going on that I should know about?”

Hotch sat on the edge of the bed, one arm held defensively against his midriff, looking from Haley to Prentiss and back again, anxious to know if some subtle, feminine warfare was in the offing. He didn’t see anything overt. His wife had tripped and spilled the coffee service she’d brought for their guest. When he looked at her balanced atop her fashionable, little slippers, he wasn’t surprised she’d stumbled. The real wonder was that it didn’t happen more often.

But he sensed…something…

It was hard for either woman to look him in the eye. Haley because of guilt. Prentiss, out of pity.

“Of course not, Sweetheart.” Haley flashed him a small, weak smile. “But I think you really should get some rest. It seems like ‘one step forward, two steps back’ when it comes to getting you healed!”

Hotch’s eyes tracked to Prentiss. The agent was digging through her purse. It was a ruse to avoid letting her boss see her satisfied glee; the aftermath of getting what amounted to a guarantee that Reid would be welcomed over the threshold of Casa Hotchner that evening.

“Prentiss?”

“Hmmm?”

“Everything okay? You didn’t get scalded did you?”

“No…no…I’m fine, but…” Emily flashed a brief smile before turning toward the door. “…I should be getting back. Good to see you, Hotch. And I’ll let Reid know to stop by later on.”

Haley couldn’t let this unwelcome visitor leave so freely. There was too much unspoken between them. She fussed at her husband, patting his shoulders, dropping a quick kiss on the top of his head. “I’m just going to see Miss Prentiss out, but I’ll be right back. Rest, Sweetheart.”

“No…” Hotch began the laborious process of extracting himself from the damp bedding and Haley’s hands. Levering himself to his feet, he looked down, taking stock of his coffee-stained clothing. “…I’m gonna get cleaned up. Should probably be moving around more anyway. At the hospital they had me walking the day after surgery.” He saw conflicting emotions play across his wife’s face. He gave her a quick, one-armed hug accompanied by a friendly nose-to-ear nuzzle. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine. Go on…”

Prentiss was already headed down the stairs, boot heels thudding in a way that set Haley’s teeth on edge. It sounded…joyous…almost like skipping. “I’ll be back,” she repeated.

Hotch watched her follow after his teammate and shook his head. _We still have a lot of things we should talk about, but…_ He sighed, eyes drawn to the stack of files Emily had left on the nightstand, the pen she’d loaned him perched on top. Given a choice between facing up to domestic conflict and all the stressful associations it had instilled in him throughout his childhood, and losing himself in work…Hotch knew which option he longed for. But something disturbing _was_ in the air.

His head hung as he began making a slow way to the closet to find clean clothes. He’d tried so hard to keep the wall he’d built between the BAU and his home intact. Now it felt as though it was crumbling. People and issues were crossing between the two and unidentified tension was beginning to float over both like a miasma of rancid smog.

 _I failed. I couldn’t make things work and now everything’s a mess._ _Not sure what to do anymore._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rather than disturb Morgan, Garcia had chaperoned Razz back to Rossi’s office herself.

“That is a very unusual person. In my day, she wouldn’t have gotten through the door unless she’d been in custody for something.” The therapist watched through the window as Penelope made her way through the bullpen, littering smiles and a few grains of glitter in her wake on her return to IT.

Rossi grinned. “That’s _exactly_ how she got here.” He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the widened eyes and raised brows of his friend. “But your time is running out, so let’s save that story for another day.” He leaned back in his chair, expression serious. “Has talking to these people helped you understand what Hotch is going through? Was it worthwhile to come here?”

Razz looked as though he were scanning some inner landscape as he pondered the question. When he nodded, however, he didn’t have the expression of someone who was completely happy with the outcome. “Yes, it was time well spent, but…” He sighed. “…when the subject is Hotch, there’s a recurring, somewhat troubling theme that keeps popping up.”

Rossi frowned, raising his chin; an invitation to explain.

“The missus.” Razz was keeping careful watch to see if Dave might already be on the same page as the rest of Aaron’s teammates. He didn’t know if he would be gratified or disappointed. It would be like finally identifying the virus that is making you ill, but then realizing there’s no cure.

Rossi scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Damn.”

“So this is not news to you?”

“No. But it’s not as though I’ve been keeping things back from you, Razz.” Dave fixed the other man with sad concern-filled eyes. “I’m only just beginning to put all the pieces together myself and I’m still not sure how much I should get mixed up in another man’s marital landscape…my own being a bit of a recurring desert…ya know?”

“Yeah. I know. Thing is, I’m even less connected than you are and I have a terrible feeling that if I don’t look into it more, I won’t be doing the job you asked me down here for.”

Rossi’s expression was wary. “You want to talk to Haley.” It wasn’t a question.

Razz nodded. “I was planning on another session with Aaron, but now I think it’d be better if I spent some time with his wife. One on one.” He took a deep breath. “I can see Aaron again tomorrow before I have to be at the airport.”

“Okay.” Rossi scanned the bullpen for Morgan, finding him glaring at his cell phone with an inexplicable look of worry. “Let me check in with our acting Unit Chief and see if we can run over to Hotch’s in a little bit.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley caught up with Prentiss in the front hallway.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my husband alone, Miss.”

The wide smirk stretching Emily’s lips as she turned to confront her hostess inflamed Haley almost as much as had the fond expression she’d seen on the agent’s face as she had been watching Aaron going over the reports she’d brought him.

“Haley…oh, sorry… _Mrs_. Hotchner, I think you’ve got it backwards. I’m not the one who threw hot coffee on him. I’m not the one who made him wrench himself in half when he’s got a bullet wound in his side.”

Haley’s eyes hardened along with her voice; both growing flinty. “I think you know exactly what I mean, Agent.”

All humor, all taunting left Prentiss’ face. Like a switch being thrown, she went blank and dangerous. It was the expression she had in the field when dealing with a particularly loathsome unsub. “I _do_ know… _Haley_. And you are so far off base you’re in an entirely different ballpark. The one where the players are too blinded by their own faults to see they’re destroying everyone and everything good around them.”

“You can’t talk to me that way…” Hotch’s wife choked the words out, nearly sputtering. “…I’ve put up with enough from all of you! Understand?” 

“You’ve put up with…?” Prentiss closed her eyes for a moment, getting utter disbelief under control. But only for a moment. When she opened them again, she fixed Haley with an icy, laser glare and gritted out her reply through clenched teeth. “You…are a rude…selfish…short-sighted…ungrateful… _stupid_ woman. You have the ingredients for a wonderful life, and you’re throwing them away with both hands. After seeing you in action, I really don’t care. But Hotch is a great guy and a terrific boss and he deserves some little crumb of happiness somewhere along the way.” Prentiss reached for the doorknob. “I hope he gets it from a kid, ‘cause he sure isn’t going to get it from you.”

As she exited, Haley recovered enough to spit a parting line after her. “How _dare_ you criticize me?! Your behavior is…is…” She pulled herself as tall as possible. “…You are no lady, _Miss_.”

Halfway down the walk, Emily turned, walking backwards for a few steps so she could make sure Haley saw the grin on her face. “Never said I was.”

At the end of the walk, Prentiss turned again. “Reid’ll be by later. He’s not like me. He won’t know enough to cover for you if you pull another coffee-attack. So behave. You know…like a _lady_ …”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan had been calling Prentiss every ten minutes once J.J. and Reid had confirmed his biggest fear: that she had decided to invite some kind of showdown at Hotch’s home. With Hotch’s wife. Probably with no witnesses. So far, he’d been unable to reach her. The calls were shunted into voicemail with frustrating regularity.

_Dammit, Emily! I’m trying to run this team the way Hotch would want, and I don’t think that includes manufacturing drama with Haley! Answer your damn phone!_

The shock when someone finally picked up robbed him of speech for a split second.

“Morgan? What’s up? We got a case?” Prentiss sounded eager. Derek wasn’t sure what to make of that. He decided to interpret it as a good thing. If there’d been a real knock-down, drag-out fight with Hotch’s wife, Prentiss would have burned off some of her energy. She wouldn’t be straining at the leash for a trip into the field.

“Prentiss. Where are you?”

“In my car. On my way back.”

“Back from where?” A few beats of silence made Morgan’s pulse speed up. “Emily…what did you do? _Did_ you go to Hotch’s?”

“Yeah. I, uh, dropped off some of your reports so he could sign off on them.”

Derek’s reply came out on a groan. “You _know_ that’s not necessary. You _know_ Strauss could have done it. You just wanted to pick a fight!”

Haley would have given Prentiss a gold star for her ladylike shift in tone. “I did no such thing. _Really_ …what kind of world is it when a good deed is…is… _besmirched_ with such undeserved suspicion…I mean… _really_ …”

“Cut it, Prentiss.” Morgan’s sigh was achingly deep. “Just tell me what happened.”

“I thought Hotch would feel better if he had a little homework. You know…the guy’s a workaholic. You can’t ask him to go cold turkey even if he’s…” She bit back what she’d been about to say: _‘even if he’s been gunned down by one of his own.’_   “…even if he’s supposed to take it easy. And he _was_ happy. Shoulda seen the way he nosed down into those files, Morgan. It meant a lot to him.”

“Okay…okay…” The acting Unit Chief decided to focus on moving ahead. There were no sirens in the background, so he assumed Prentiss hadn’t torn the jugular out of Mrs. Hotchner’s throat. “Just get back here and pass the reports on.”

“Oh. No can do. Sorry.”

Any relief Morgan had allowed to bloom, shriveled. “What?”

“Well…like I said, Hotch was a happy, little camper. But then…” She decided to get it over with in a rush. “…Haley attacked us and I decided it’d be best if I left, so Reid’s supposed to pick up the signed files later today, and everyone’s fine, no real damage, I’m on my way, bye!”

“ _What_!!?” Morgan stared at the severed connection

 

xxxxxxx

 

By the time Haley had calmed herself enough to go back upstairs, Hotch had cleaned himself up and was making abortive attempts to blot the coffee stains out of the carpet and upholstery.

“Aaron, no. Stop, Sweetheart. Let me do that. It’s my fault after all.”

Hotch had been holding his side, leaning over with a wad of paper towels that were doing little to sop up the mess. He straightened, swaying a little as the unaccustomed activity made him light-headed. Haley relieved him of the damp towels and pushed him backwards until his knees met the mattress, forcing him to sit on the bed. She gave the damage she’d done a glum look.

“I’ll change the sheets. Probably have to have the carpet professionally cleaned, though.” She shoved the soiled chair back toward her vanity. “… _and_ the chair.” She stopped inspecting the damage when she caught sight of her husband’s sad, dark eyes watching her. “What?”

“Haley, that _was_ an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was. How could you think such a thing?” The weary lack of outrage in her voice surprised him, but made him realize how tired of conflict and drama he was, too.

“You don’t like Agent Prentiss though, do you?”

“No.” It was so quiet. Almost a whisper. “No, I don’t.”

“Why not? You don’t even really know her.”

Haley turned eyes filled with accusation on him. “I don’t have to know her to dislike a woman who’s attracted to my husband.”

A twinge of shock made Hotch blink. “Attracted…? She isn’t!”

Sighing, Haley went to sit by Aaron’s side. She draped one arm across his shoulders, pulling him down so his head rested against her. “Sweetheart, I love you, but you can be so blind sometimes. I saw her watching you when I came in with the tray. The look she had…” Her voice broke. “…I know that look. It’s _my_ look. It’s how I look every time I see you or think about you. Mine. Not hers. Mine.” She rested her forehead against the dark hair she could envision so clearly on a mini version of him. “No one else has a right to that look.”

“Haley, you have to trust me on this. Prentiss is a good agent…Hell, she’s a great agent! But I’m not her type. And she’s not mine.”

“Hmmmmm….”

It was a noncommittal hum pressed into his hair. Not a yes. Not a no. A nothing response really.

But it made Hotch’s stomach twist, and his eyes wander toward the brown stain on the seat of the chair where Prentiss had been.


	118. Shattered Shell

Fuming, Morgan awaited Prentiss’ return.

Being Unit Chief-For-A-Week didn’t mean he couldn’t still be familiar and friendly with his teammates, and he knew in a field situation all levity and mischief would fall by the wayside. But he didn’t want Hotch, sitting at home and also sitting in judgment of his first go at running the BAU, to think Morgan was taking things lightly and letting agents run off on unnecessary errands.

Derek lowered his head, did his work and worried about what Prentiss had meant by being ‘attacked’ by Haley. He was deep in thought when he realized someone was saying his name. Repeatedly.

“Morgan. Hey! Morgan!” Rossi stood at the agent’s elbow, making a bid for his attention.

“Huh?” He blinked, realizing the older man and his visitor must have said something requiring a response.

“I asked if you’d mind if Razz and I went out for a while.”

Morgan heaved a sigh. “No. Go.” He glanced at Prentiss’ vacant desk. “Just tell me you’re not going to ambush a Hotchner, okay?” He’d meant it as dark humor. When the comment was met with mirthless silence, Derek froze for a moment, then turned mournful eyes on his colleague. “Rossi?”

“Well, it’s not exactly an ambush…Just gonna drop Razz off at Hotch’s…” He frowned. “Something going on that we should know about?”

Another weighty sigh accompanied Morgan’s gesture. He tilted his head toward Prentiss’ workspace. “Someone’s already paid Hotch a visit this morning. ‘Til Emily gets back, all I know is Haley got pissed off, no one got hurt, and Reid’s supposed to go by later.”

Rossi and Razz turned their curious regard on the youngest agent. Reid’s own eyes were a little wild around the edges, showing some white. His voice cracked as he sought an escape route from the plan Emily had set in motion. “M-maybe you guys could take care of whatever I’m supposed to do? Right? Save me a trip? Guys?”

Before either older man could answer, the glass doors leading into the BAU swung open. Prentiss stepped through, hesitated when she saw the gathering around Morgan, and then sauntered with studied nonchalance to her own desk. All eyes tracked her.

The acting Unit Chief spoke first. “Prentiss, no more field trips unless I authorize them. And if you have to let off steam, go to the gym and find a sparring partner. No more bothering Hotch.”

Emily raised her chin at her temporary boss. “I did _not_ ‘bother’ him, Morgan. He was glad to see me and giving him something work-related to do was the best medicine he could hope for. If Haley hadn’t…” She shook her head, abandoning the thought midstream, and turned toward Reid. “He really does want to see you later. Picking up those files is just an excuse. I think it’d be nice if one of us dropped by every day we’re not in the field.”

“Prentiss.” Morgan’s voice was hard, taking on the tone of command. “Finish your sentence. If Haley hadn’t… _what_?”

Emily had a strong rebellious streak, but she was never insubordinate. She knew her pack’s…uh, _team’s_ …strength was built on respect for its leader. “Haley’s got a little game going. It’s called ‘Mine, Mine, Mine.’ And we’re all players as far as she’s concerned.”

“P-r-e-n-t-i-s-s…” There was no ignoring the warning in Morgan’s voice. He, at least, wasn’t in the mood for games.

“She tried to douse me with hot coffee, guys. Said it was an accident, but I know a scheming, steaming pile of sh…”

“Prentiss!” Derek called her to order before she could set a precedent of bashing the boss’ wife. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would condone. No matter how he felt about Haley personally, he would not allow Hotch to return to snide, sidelong glances and water-cooler gossip about his spouse. He was pleased to see Prentiss pull back with a conciliatory, understanding look.

“Okay, okay…But she did. Hotch ended up getting the worst of it.” Several pairs of eyes widened. Emily hurried to reassure them. “He’s fine. But she could have done some serious damage. As it was, he had to move a lot faster and twist in ways he shouldn’t to get away. It hurt him…”

“But he’s okay?” Rossi broke in. “Did you check his stitches?”

“I did. Against Haley’s wishes.”

“What else happened? Why is Reid going over?” Morgan’s sharp tone demanded a full explanation.

“I thought it would be best to leave once I saw how my being there affected Haley. But…” Prentiss turned pleading eyes on the others. “…I also saw how much Hotch needs to have something to do, something to let him know he’s still part of the team.”

“He knows that.”

“Well, he liked being reminded. So I left the files with him. He’ll read them through and I thought it’d be better if someone else picked them up. Reid came to mind.”

“W-why? Why me?” Worry made the young genius’ voice sound creaky.

“Because you’re the least objectionable person here. And you haven’t really said two words to Hotch since the whole make-him-a-daddy mess. Not that you were that much a part of it.”

Reid hung his head. “Knowledge implies complicity.”

Rossi had been watching the conversation play out. He noticed their liaison sitting quietly to the side, surrounded by her signature aura of calm. “What do you think, J.J.?”

Attention turned her way. She took a moment to consider her response. When it came, it was like her: logical and soothing. “I think we need the files back. I have to move them on to Strauss. And I do think Spence is a good choice as sort of an ambassador...” She saw Reid’s anxious eyes dart. “…But I _also_ think I should go with him…” She looked up at Morgan, giving him his due as their leader. “…if that’s okay with you, Derek.”

“Are you sure?”

J.J. nodded, smiling at Reid’s look of relief. “I’ll keep Haley occupied. And I won’t start a fight. I’ll even bring her a little gift to remind her of why she started this whole episode of increased team involvement in her personal life. Maybe I can make peace with her.” She rose and moved toward her office. “We’ll be fine. It’s time we remembered that this isn’t a case. It’s just Hotch at home.”

Morgan considered her proposal. “Alright.” He turned his attention back to Rossi and Razz. “I can’t tell you what to do, Dr. Rasmussen. But Rossi, let’s give Mrs. Hotchner a break from the BAU. Maybe she’ll settle down by the time Reid and J.J. go over.”

Rossi nodded. “Fine by me. I’ll drop Razz off and keep out of it.”

Secretly, they were all thinking that their press liaison was a very brave woman, and wondered what J.J. could possibly bring with her as a peace offering.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When the doorbell rang, Haley was puttering in the kitchen.

She’d left Hotch in his den with his stack of files. Feeling she’d had a narrow escape concerning her true motives behind the coffee incident, Haley had vowed to herself that she would put in a good-faith effort to follow the guidelines they’d set up. Hotch could spend time with his BAU homework until dinnertime. Then, the Hotchners would enjoy an evening alone with nothing to distract them from each other.

Privately, Haley thought she had the best part of the bargain. After the encounter with Prentiss, she didn’t think there’d be much chance of more FBI agents showing up unannounced. Her nose wrinkled. _Except for that twitchy kid, Reid. But I can handle him. Just give him those files and send him on his way. After that, we’re home free for…_ She gave herself a joyous, little, congratulatory hug… ** _TWO_** _weeks!_ Once things had settled down, she’d been stunned and amazed to find that her clandestine phone call had panned out so well.

Feeling triumphant, she decided to assemble some little treats to enjoy with her husband during a nice, long, romantic evening. Which is when the doorbell chimed.

Smiling, Haley went to answer it. She was in such a good mood, she thought she might even be cordial to a door-to-door salesman, or a poll-taker, or a Girl Scout bearing cookies. Beaming a wide smile, she opened the door…and felt the lines of her face sag downward.

“Hello again, Mrs. Hotchner.” Razz tried to make up for the lady’s vanishing smile with a large one of his own.

“I…uh…” Haley immediately craned to see who else might be waiting, expecting admittance.

“Oh…don’t worry.” The therapist’s good natured expression never wavered. “Dave’s not with me this time. I’m on my own.”

“Well, uh…Aaron’s had an eventful day already. He’s resting and…”

“No problem. I came to see _you_.”

“I…uh…” Haley felt the power of speech draining away right along with all her plans for a lovely evening alone with an armful of Aaron.

“May I come in?”

Razz’s ingratiating demeanor reminded Hotch’s wife of her manners. She wasn’t sure if this man was to be included under the umbrella of those to whom she was expected to extend courtesy and respect. But considering Aaron had almost called her out on her earlier behavior with that dreadful Prentiss, she thought she should err on the side of caution.

“Please…” Haley stepped back, motioning Razz into her home. Then she decided to remind this guest of what she considered his own lapse in manners. “You might have called before dropping by. I could have been out running errands, you know.”

“Ohhhh…that wouldn’t have been a problem. Your husband’s in no condition to be gallivanting around town. I knew he’d be in at least, and then I’d have spent some more time with _him_. So you see…” That unflappably jovial grin didn’t falter. “…it wouldn’t have been a wasted trip.”

Haley saw her subtle style of reprimand was lost on this man. She thought the best course of action would be to find out what he wanted, give it to him, and send him on his way as soon as possible. To that end, she seated him in the kitchen and did her duty as hostess, offering him refreshments. Razz’s polite refusal and suggestion they ‘get down to it’ played into her plans for a quick visit, but also made her a little nervous.

“Well, then, Dr. Rasmussen…” Haley refused the use of his nickname. “…what can I do for you?”

“Just talk to me. Entertain a few questions, and understand that all you say is safe with me…and that my one intention is to help your husband.”

His eyes were so grave, his expression so earnest, Haley felt some of her tension diminish. She was still wary, but in the end, she loved her Aaron and wanted him happy. If this would help… _But I already **know** what he needs. If he’d only give in and try…Still…no harm in listening…and really no choice either…_

“Alright.” Haley glanced at her watch, making it clear that this wasn’t to be an extended session. “What do you want to know?” Even as she asked, a flush of embarrassment touched her cheeks. Her impression of psychology was that it touched rather heavily on sexual matters.

But the therapist’s first question had nothing to do with sex, yet made her flush grow warmer by targeting a sensitive area.

“Talk to me about Aaron’s work.”

Haley swallowed. “What do you want to know? He doesn’t share what goes on at work with me.”

“But there’s tension there. Why?”

Painfully aware that Razz was Rossi’s friend and that he’d likely spent time with the BAU team already, Haley’s discomfort was extreme…and palpable to the therapist.

“Mrs. Hotchner, talking to me is like talking to a wall. There is no possibility of your words traveling to any ears other than mine.” His voice was low, confidential, and very soothing. “And I make no judgment. Besides, I deal with law enforcement personnel all day, every day. I _know_ how difficult it is for their spouses. I _know_ you have a hard job being Aaron’s wife.”

It was the first time someone had taken Haley’s side so easily and said what she felt in so few words. It was the first time she didn’t feel at war. Tension drained from her body, making her shiver at its sudden absence. Her throat tightened with genuine emotion. It had been forever since she’d felt she could really talk to someone…maybe just this once…

“It _is_ hard. When your husband kisses you goodbye and leaves for work, most housewives can depend on them coming home. They can depend on them walking through the door at the end of the day…” She didn’t know tears had formed, were spilling over. “…But with Aaron, I never know if the next time I see him he’ll be…he’ll be…” Control left her. Haley sobbed. “Oh, God, I don’t want to ever have to identify his body!! It’s always in the back of my mind. When I dream, even _day_ dreams, if I’m not on my guard, I see it happening.” She tried to pull herself back, but for once Haley wasn’t pretty when she cried. And for once…she didn’t care.

“They walk me down this long hall. And they ask me if I’m ready. And then even if I’m not…because it _has_ to happen…they show me Aaron on an overhead monitor. Like it’s some kind of entertainment. And he’s so still…”

Razz sat back, staring. _This is real. To her this is the inevitable outcome._

“And all I want is to hold him. But they won’t let me. So…so I fight as hard as I can to get to him…and…and…” Haley seemed to realize she’d let something escape that she had never intended. She gulped herself back in control, but her voice still shook. “…and I keep screaming ‘he’s mine’ over and over and over and then…I wake up.” She fixed Razz with an unblinking look. “And all I feel is fear and hate. That’s all. Fear and hate for everything that’s part of what took him…My Aaron. Mine…”

She hadn’t meant to explode like that. She dropped her gaze, refusing to meet the eyes of this man who, in the end, was part of the world that fed that fear and hate. Silence reigned.

After he’d given Hotch’s wife some time to collect herself, Razz reached across the table and clasped her hand, finding it still trembling despite her having resumed what he now thought of as her everyday mask.

“Mrs. Hotchner…Haley…I will never speak a word of this to another living soul unless you ask me to. And I do understand.” He squeezed her fingers until she looked up at him. Razz found he needed to take a deep breath before continuing.

“My wife was a police officer. Three weeks before she was going to retire, she was killed in the line of duty. I _do_ understand.”

Razz watched the mask…melt…

 


	119. Quick Quack

Razz squirmed watching Haley’s transformation.

The dazed horror emerging from behind her prim, capable façade reminded him too much of the face that had gazed out at him from the mirror for days, weeks, months after his wife’s death.

But Mrs. Hotchner was somehow more disturbing. She had reached that plateau of bleak despair without the reality of a loved one’s death to blame. Which told Razz this woman’s inner demons were running amok. They’d hijacked her ability to ignore all the terrible possibilities life could include.

Normally people lived in a merciful state of ignorance and blind faith. Sure, there were monsters lurking in the woods, but the woods were far away…or the monsters weren’t hungry at the moment you passed by…or at the last minute they weren’t really monsters after all, just Uncle Clyde in a monster mask…

It was different for Haley. She was trapped, hearing soft thunder in the distance getting closer and closer, telling her the storm was inevitable, unavoidable, and destructive beyond her wildest dreams. And coming especially for her.

 _Her imagination’s creating a world no sane person can live in. Not for long, anyway._ When the therapist tried to recall the abyss into which he himself had fallen after his own tragedy, he found that time had blunted the edges of the agony. If he worked at it, the pain could be recreated; he could even bring up tears. But the knowledge that your world could be destroyed and your heart shattered within milliseconds had been put aside. _You can’t carry that with you into your daily life. That’s why grieving is so intense…it’s finite. It burns out the emotional nerve endings and then recedes. As trite as it sounds, life goes on._

He watched Hotch’s wife struggle to put the mask back in place. _Good God. That boy upstairs is damaged, but still functional. But…this?! Yikes! There’s no reason for it!_ And that’s when Dr. Ben Rasmussen sat a little straighter and the rule of thumb by which he operated reasserted itself. _There **is** a reason. There always is. An unremarkable, reliably logical, boring reason. Somewhere deep and likely long ago…But I doubt I have the time to dig it out…_

He couldn’t know the voices echoing in Haley’s mind. In truth, she hardly heard them herself; only the soft, approaching thunder of dread and destruction.

 

xxxxxxx

 

… “Haley! Stop crying, Pumpkin! My goodness, such a fuss…Landsakes…Honey, will you help me out here? Tell your daughter it’s not the end of the world.”

Large hands pulled the little girl into a safe, paternal lap.

“C’mere, Angel…Oooof…You’re gettin’ to be a big girl, aren’t you? Now, stop crying and tell Daddy what’s wrong.”

The hiccupping sobs made it hard to talk, but she did her best. After all, it was a matter of life or death! Even a three-year-old knows about irretrievable loss. “Airy! They took Airy! He’s…he’s… _gone_!!”

“Airy?”

Haley’s mother whispered. “The blue horse. With the wings? She dropped it in the mud.”

“Ahhhhh…well…C’mere, Little Angel…” The hug that always made Haley feel better managed to stem her inconsolable wailing. But it didn’t stop the pain in her heart. “What say we go out this afternoon and see if we can’t find _another_ Airy? Or maybe something new and different? Whatever my angel wants...”

“No! Want Airy! Mine! Airy’s mine and they…they… _took_ him!”

Another questioning look brought another whispered explanation. “Salvation Army truck. They were next door anyway.”

“Airy!!”

“Angel, we’ll get you a new Airy, but you’re big enough now to understand that sometimes, when things get too hurt they’re kinda used up…well, then we have to let them go. Airy understands. He’d be sad, though, if he knew you were crying.”

Haley had gulped back the sobs for Airy’s sake, but the crack in her childish heart wasn’t soothed by the new toys and the new dresses and the parties and prizes that came later.

Airy had been her first best friend. His plush ears had accepted all her pain and secrets and dreams. She’d loved him with all her soul.

It wasn’t fair.

No one had told her the rule about having to give up who you loved most just because he got damaged.

The sad part was that if anyone had mentioned Airy to grown-up Haley, she wouldn’t have known what they were talking about. The name and the toy were gone from her; pressed down into the dark place where really bad things disappeared and couldn’t be retrieved.

But the lesson of losing Airy lived on.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In the end, the best Razz could do in the short time he had, amounted to psychological triage.

Mrs. Hotchner was a very strong, very capable woman. Her fear of losing her husband was real and justified, considering his line of work. But letting it morph into a force that affected everyone and everything; using it to define relationships…that could only lead to another kind of loss. _She might not lose Aaron to the Angel of Death, but she sure as hell is stripping both their lives of the richness and joy that comes by living compatibly with the fact that disaster could happen any time._

All Razz could do was talk to her.

“Mrs. Hotchner, I can’t tell you not to worry. Worry comes with the territory when you’re married to a field agent. And I _know_ the worst can and does, on occasion, happen. I’ve lived it. What I _can_ do is try to help you put your situation in perspective.”

Haley’s mask was back in place. She was mortified that she’d let it not only slip, but go careening off into the blue, leaving her feeling emotionally naked before this stranger. She concentrated on her posture. And on the wood grain of the kitchen table. And the dark sympathy behind this man’s words.

“Your husband is an intelligent, careful man. He doesn’t take unnecessary risks. When he leaves here he is surrounded by other intelligent, careful people. When it comes to physical danger, he’s probably safer at his office than he is anywhere else.” Razz saw the stricken look in Haley’s eyes and hurried on.

“Far more important in my mind is _emotional_ safety. That’s the kind that can make physical danger a much less potent factor in your life. And I’m no marriage counselor, but emotional safety is what a husband and wife should provide for each other. How can Aaron reassure you that he’s taking every precaution? That he’s not wandering around out there without a plan or protection?”

Haley’s head had begun to shake in small, repetitive gestures of denial. “He’s _not_ safe out there! You have no idea how many times he’s come back hurt or sick. It keeps getting worse! He’s _not_ safe! And I know what you’re trying to do, Dr. Rasmussen. It’s the same thing Dave said: that somehow I’m not doing my job as Aaron’s wife. I’m not making him a safe place here at home.”

Razz’s words dried up. He’d been wrong to think he could make a difference in these people’s lives with a smattering of advice and observations. It smacked of fast-food psychology; the kind he detested. The kind he attributed to phone-in talk shows. The kind that quacks dispensed.

“I’m not the one hurting him, Doctor. I’m the one picking up the pieces after he gets back from his ‘safe’ trips into places where people have already been killed or…or…raped…or _hurt_! And as for me? I won’t feel safe until Aaron is.”

Haley felt her composure beginning to slip again. She didn’t want to give this man an encore. Standing, she turned her back on him. “I’m sorry. I have things to do.” She was hiding. The perfect Southern hostess giving her camouflage. “Please forgive me if I don’t see you out.”

Razz recognized the tone of dismissal.

“Mrs. Hotchner, you’re a large part of your husband’s world, but not its sum total. You can’t make him an island. Like they say: no man is…”

Haley’s voice was filled with infinite sadness. “I know that, Doctor. But the more times Aaron gets hurt, the closer he comes to being taken from me forever. I’m not ready for that.” She turned back, meeting Razz’s concerned eyes with brimming ones of her own. “I will fight everyone and everything to keep him. I’m just not ready to lose him.”

Razz sighed in defeat. “No one ever is, Mrs. Hotchner. But you’re jumping to the end, and missing everything in between. On a gravestone, the date of birth and the date of death look the biggest, but what really matters is the dash between the numbers.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch took his time reading through Morgan’s reports.

He was making them last, savoring them. And he was feeling proud. He was taking the opportunity to pick them apart with a focus usually denied him by the distractions and demands of the workplace. Pushed by the necessity of reviewing dozens, Hotch was reduced to the role of fact-checker. But now, at home, alone…he could read for pleasure.

Morgan was good. Meticulous. Detailed. Honest. Hotch smiled.

He knew the agent was extraordinary in the field, but he’d never considered him to have a literary bent. The way he wrote up cases proved there were some hidden talents beneath the muscular surface.

When Hotch’s phone buzzed, he answered with the smile warming his voice. “Hotchner.”

“Hi, Hotch. It’s me.” J.J.’s easy greeting sent a pang of longing for the BAU through him. “How’re you doing? Bored yet?”

“I’m okay. How’re things going over there? Any cases?”

“Just consults so far, but the week is young. You’re not missing anything important.”

 “Prentiss get back okay?”

“Y-e-a-h... About that.”

Something in J.J.’s tone made Hotch’s ears prick up. “Problem?”

“N-o-o-o, not really. I was just wondering if you’d mind if I tagged along when Reid comes by to pick up those files Emily left with you?”

J.J. could almost hear the thought process as her boss considered the implications of her request.

“Not a problem. I’d like to see both of you. But…” Wounded or not, Hotch knew his team. “…does this have anything to do with the other night? When Reid came by to drop off a prescription?”

“You know about that?”

“Rossi mentioned it.” After a few beats of silence, Hotch probed deeper. “Is Reid uncomfortable coming over here?”

Ever the liaison, a diplomatic reply was second nature for J.J.. “Well, you know Spence. He’s not the best at social interaction. But neither of us has had much chance to talk to you since the last case and this seems like an opportune time…” She faded out, waiting for Hotch to accept her reasoning.

“Like I said, it’ll be nice to see you. I’ll let Haley know to expect you both. See you later.”

“Thanks. Bye, Hotch.”

The Unit Chief had resorted to his own considerable tactful talents, but the call left him with lingering unease.

_Is Reid really that shy…or is Haley that scary?_


	120. Healthy Giblets

Razz felt the need to walk after he left Haley.

He meandered through the neighborhood, seeing nothing, lost in endless, fruitless speculation. He felt as though he’d opened Pandora’s Box, but instead of letting loose all the ills contained therein, he’d had only fleeting glimpses of tips and bits as they burrowed ever deeper. There was no freeing the demons. The box they inhabited was doomed to bear them.

 _Or, at least **I** won’t be the one to dig them out. It would take a lot more time for either of those people to make any real headway. And it would take a willingness to work on it from the both of them._ He paused, shaking his head, staring at a crack in the sidewalk where a tree root had forced its way up through the concrete. _Bet that pavement’s been buckled like that for a long time. Bet no one notices it anymore. Just goes to show that people can get used to damage. The human animal can adapt to almost anything._

He pulled out his phone to call Rossi for a ride home. As he glanced around, looking for a street sign, all he could think was…

_God help the Hotchners…_

But he wasn’t the type to give up so quickly. And certainly not when it came to helping the man who still lived in his memory as an eager innocent bent on righting the wrongs of the world and ignorant of how waging that battle would extract so much joy from his own life.

Razz sighed. _Not gonna let you go so easily, dark-haired boy._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley stood at the kitchen counter, back to the rest of the room until she heard the front door close behind Razz.

Not until then did she allow her control to loosen. Exhaling what felt like a bowling ball of anxiety trapped in her chest, she collapsed into the nearest chair. And reviewed the reasons why she hated people associated with the business of behavioral analysis. Except for Aaron, of course.

Even though there’d been no overt coercion, Haley felt violated. She’d been subjected to a professional whose business was yanking away the protective covering everyone needed if they had any hope of progressing, or even surviving, in this world. If you didn’t keep yourself intact, firmly in hand, anything could and would pierce your defenses. Leaning forward, she covered her face with her hands and tried to think of something else…anything besides the precarious path Aaron was navigating, where she just _knew_ the further he traveled, the closer he was to falling off the deadly precipices bordering every side.

_Make a safe place for him? The best I can do is make a place for his body to heal so they can feel justified throwing him out into the field again and maybe finishing the job they started by putting him in charge in the first place!_

She didn’t know how long she remained seated, immersed in a vague terror that eluded her grasp and defied her efforts to quantify or identify. In the end, it was easiest to offload the emotional burden onto her husband’s career choice. Fix that and the other things would fall into place. She emerged from this unhappy, mental terrain to the sound of someone making labored progress down the stairs.

Pushing up from her chair, Haley exited the kitchen to find Hotch clinging to the banister, making a slow, steady way down to the main floor, some of the files Prentiss had brought him clutched in one hand. Within seconds she was at his side, slipping an arm around his waist.

“Sweetheart, please take it easy. If you want something, you should call me. I’ll bring it up to you.”

“‘S’okay. I need to move around more.”

She felt the even, solid shift-and-flex of his muscles beneath her palm and knew arguing was useless.

“Well, at least let me get you settled someplace comfortable, okay?…The couch?”

Hotch was putting up a good front, but his reply came out on a sharp gasp. “Yeah. Couch.” The earlier altercation with hot coffee had taken more out of him than he’d thought.

Amid fluffing and fussing and tucking, Haley stole glances at the fatigued lines of her husband’s face. “So you got a little bored upstairs?”

“Yeah. Needed a change of scenery. And wondered what’s been going on down here…?”

Their eyes met and Haley knew he’d heard some of the exchange with the therapist. Her voice had become a little strident in the thick of it all. Lips pressed into a hard line, she sat next to him, legs folded beneath her.

“Dr. Rasmussen dropped by. Wanted to talk. To _me_.”

Hotch frowned. “Did he say why?”

“I think Dave must have said something to him, because…” She bit back the words she hadn’t intended to spill out quite so readily.

“Because why?” Hotch was genuinely puzzled. Razz had been called in because Dave had convinced him that the whole team would benefit. That wasn’t supposed to include spouses.

Haley swallowed and nestled in closer to her husband’s warm side. “I don’t think Dave considers me a very good wife, Aaron.”

Shocked silence lasted for nearly a minute.

“Why would you think that? Did Rossi say something to you?” He could feel her tense against him. When it came, her voice sounded strained.

“He doesn’t think I give you what you need here at home. He…he says I don’t make you feel safe, but…” She pulled back enough to make eye contact. “…but when you get hurt, it’s not _here_ , is it?”

Hotch’s head gave a single, slow shake. He pulled Haley closer, ignoring the twinge in his side that warned him to be careful. “You’re the best wife in the world, Haley. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” He rested his chin on top of her hair, troubled eyes searching an inner landscape. “I’ll talk to Dave.”

“No!” She struggled out of his hold, looking up, reading concern in the elegant features she hoped a child would inherit. “No, don’t do that. It’ll just make things worse.”

“Okay, but…”

“No ‘but’s. I don’t want him any more involved in our marriage than he already is.” She snuggled back down into the comforting warmth of Hotch’s body. “But…Sweetheart…am I missing something?” Her voice grew smaller. “Do you need something I’m _not_ doing?”

“No.” It was almost ferocious. “You’re the best wife in the world. I’d be lost without you.”

The house was quiet. Hotch and Haley held each other with desperate intensity. Wide eyes unfocused as each searched for something elusive yet vital. Something they might have missed along the way.

They looked like two frightened children, scared of taking a wrong turn and getting lost.

Or maybe they already were.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hours later, when J.J. and a reluctant Reid pulled up to the curb, the Hotchners had eaten dinner.

Haley was tidying up. Aaron had reminded her that Reid would be coming by to pick up the files he’d been working on. When he mentioned J.J. would be accompanying the young agent, Haley’s nose had wrinkled, but she’d seemed to accept the situation.

Hotch had returned to his den. The day had taken a toll, leaving him with a dull, aching throb emanating from his injury and spreading across his waist. When he heard the doorbell and the low sound of voices downstairs, he was glad. This would be the last order of business for the day, and then he could lie down and rest. He hoped that would lessen the nagging pain.

The sound of someone loping up the stairs, thumping with less than graceful cadence, made the Unit Chief smile. _Yep. That’s Reid._ He listened for J.J.’s more sedate, lighter footfalls, but heard nothing. _Maybe she changed her mind about coming._

The steps hesitated at each door until they reached the den and the man of the house sitting at his desk.

“Hey, Hotch…” Reid’s enthusiastic pace faltered once he’d found his boss. He’d bolted from Haley’s presence, but wasn’t entirely comfortable in Hotch’s either.

“Hey. Come in.”

The young agent stepped through the door, obedient. But his awkwardness was palpable. The two men’s eyes met and, for a few, silent beats…held. Hotch tilted his head to one side, inspecting his teammate. “You alright?”

“Me?! Uh, yeah! Sure…I mean, _you’re_ the one everyone’s worried abou…” What might have been an unintentional blurt, stopped short. Reid’s gaze dropped to his feet. In the ensuing quiet, Hotch thought he could hear the occasional, low murmur of feminine voices downstairs.

“Have a seat, Reid.” He waited for the younger man to settle himself, noting that he took a few furtive glances at his boss. “How’s everything at work? Morgan doing okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes. I mean, we haven’t had too much to do yet. No field cases, but, yeah…Morgan’s good.”

“And you? You’re good?”

“Wha’d’you mean?” At last Reid looked up and stayed focused on Hotch, curiosity and trepidation overruling bashful discomfort.

“I mean I know you came by the other night and Haley was less than welcoming. I’m sorry about that.” Unthinking, Hotch gave a deep sigh and caught his breath at the pain that lanced through his side. Reid’s brows rose, taking in every movement. Hotch continued, “You have to understand that my wife didn’t mean anything personal. She was just being protective.” A wry grin passed over his face. “Guess you could say Haley’s my home version of Morgan. Always looking out for me.”

Hotch had expected Reid to at least smile at the comparison, but instead he saw the younger man was observing him with an increasingly deep frown.

“Hotch? She _did_ give you the pills I brought by, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.” The Unit Chief grimaced as he adjusted his position to face his guest more directly.

A sharp tone entered Reid’s normally mild voice. “But you’re not taking them, are you!”

Hotch raised his chin, regarding his young colleague with a wary eye. “I took one.” He sounded like a man attempting to evade being charged with the crime of which he knows he’s guilty.

“Hotch!” Reid’s brows had drawn into a line indicative of concern and outrage. He’d recalled the reason Rossi had given originally for choosing him to deliver painkillers to a man who made a routine of refusing to take them. “You’re hurting now aren’t you!”

It was an accusation.

Hotch tried to glower, but was feeling a little drained by the day and the stairs and the flying coffee.

In the end Reid’s boss was glad the subject of pain, its effects and treatment, arose. It served to boost the young genius over any lingering awkwardness. His encyclopedic brain spewed forth all the ills Hotch was courting by being stubborn when it came to medication.

“Prolonged pain can make that wound heal poorly. It can cause weakness and muscle breakdown. It stresses your kidneys, your heart…increases blood pressure, decreases gastrointestinal motility…it can suppress your immune system, take away your appetite and energy. Jeez, Hotch! There’s no reason to put yourself through that!”

The Unit Chief could only listen, a bemused, if captive, audience. But it was when Reid began listing the psychological effects that Hotch felt a tremor of true concern. Pain wasn’t merely a matter of discomfort; it could also be at the root of some things that could be affecting his and Haley’s interactions.

 “And that’s just the physical stuff, Hotch! Psychologically, leaving pain unmanaged can lead to anger, depression, anxiety, increased marital conflict and reduced libido…”

Which is where the gist of what he was saying and how it pertained to Hotch’s current domestic situation broke through Reid’s recitation, reminding him of the delicate area into which the team had already intruded, setting off the chain of hurt feelings that was still echoing through them.

He reigned himself in, but he felt too strongly about the issue to abandon it.

“Hotch, where are those pills?”

A little dazed by his subordinate’s passion when it came to his health, Hotch’s answer was meek. “In the bedroom.”

Reid stood. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m butting in again, but…” He chewed on his lips, a sure sign of distress. “…you’re tired, right? You’ve been doing stuff all day and this morning you…” Again, Reid bit down on what he’d been about to say. _And Prentiss told us about the coffee Mrs. Hotchner threw, and how you had to dodge it._ But he caught himself in time.

“Hotch, please go to bed and take your medicine. Okay? I’ll…I’ll take the files back, but I need to see that you’ll take care of yourself before I leave.” Bashful Reid returned. He fidgeted, dropping his eyes to the floor once more. “Please?”

Hotch blinked and then smiled, although Reid didn’t see it. Whatever unease the young agent might have felt relating to his leader and the fallout of the last few months had melted away before his genuine concern for the man’s wellbeing.

Even if it _was_ butting in, Hotch was grateful for that.

He shuffled the folders into a neat stack. Standing, he pushed them against Reid’s arm until the younger man looked up and took them. In the aftermath of the day, Hotch _was_ tired. He gave his guest a sheepish look. “Okay, Reid. I’ll go to bed.”

“And take your medicine?”

“And take my medicine.”

Hotch felt Reid follow behind him as he navigated the hallway to the master bedroom. Without a word of protest, he shook a pill from the bottle on the nightstand and swallowed it. He turned to meet the grave eyes watching him.

“You better lie down. Before it takes effect.”

Still cooperating, Hotch stretched out on top of the bedspread. He gave a deep sigh that ended on a groan. Reid moved closer, looking down on his boss.

“Are you gonna be okay, Hotch? I mean, you know…really?”

Hotch met, and held, Reid’s eyes. There was something plaintive in the question. It demanded more than a flip response.

“I’ll do my best, Reid. But in the meantime, be there for Morgan just the way you are for me. And don’t get distracted thinking about me. When your head’s in the game, it’s like having a super-power at our disposal. The team needs you fully on board. Got it?”

At last the genius’ shy smile emerged. He nodded. Hotch thought that signaled the end of their conversation.

He was wrong.

Reid chewed on his lips again. “Can I hang out up here for a little while?”

The drugs were taking effect, but the unusual question roused Hotch a little. “Why?”

“Well, J.J. and Mrs. Hotchner went into the kitchen to talk. I don’t wanna…you know…walk in on anything.”

Hotch’s eyes tracked to the coffee stains on the carpet. A little thread of worry began to weave its way through him. Kitchens are notorious for being one of the rooms where household accidents were most likely to happen.

Hotch nodded.

The two men kept each other company in companionable silence, ears tuned for sounds of what might be transpiring downstairs.

 

 


	121. Dove With an Olive Branch

Haley had tried to rally when the doorbell rang, knowing there would be _two_ BAU agents standing on the other side, against whom she’d have to hold her own.

_God, I **hope** it’s just two!_

She wasn’t up to her usual standards of territorial defense. Her mind was running over too many comments from too many people who seemed to think they had a right to tell her how to conduct her relationship with Aaron. In spite of outward appearances, she’d been willing to consider some of the advice and observations. But when she’d asked the one person whose opinion _did_ belong in the mix, his answer had been firm.

_And if Aaron says he’s happy…well, he didn’t say ‘happy,’ but it’s inferred, right? Anyway, if he says I’m fine and he loves me, then all the rest of them should butt out!_

When she opened the front door she looked wary. The welcoming smile she’d been trained to provide visitors was weak and insincere. _Oh, hell…these are people who read others, rape them with their eyes, and make judgments for a living. Why bother…_ The smile fled. The wariness remained.

In the vanguard was J.J.. _Her_ smile was easy and professional.

A pace behind her stood Reid. Haley didn’t even notice his expression (smile-less, for the record), distracted by the peripheral impression of nervous energy making him fidget and tremble in the background.

“Hi, Haley. I hope Hotch told you we’d be dropping by?” The warm confidence in J.J.’s voice rankled her hostess.

 _Why should she seem more at ease in my home than I do?!_ Too worn to dredge up a suitably polite yet prickly comeback, Haley stood aside, allowing the agents to cross the threshold. At last she noticed Reid’s darting, anxious eyes. Shaking her head at how little he resembled her idea of an FBI agent…formed primarily by her association with Hotch and Rossi…she dismissed him from any serious consideration when it came to ongoing altercations. She knew why he was here, at least: to pick up files. The same couldn’t be said for J.J.

Haley inclined her head toward the stairs. “Aaron’s up there.” She watched Reid bound toward the staircase on legs as gangly as a colt’s. “Please don’t tire him out, Mr….uh… Dr. Reid!”

“He won’t.” J.J.’s soft voice forestalled any other concerns about her colleague by claiming Haley’s full attention.

“Miss Jareau.” Haley crossed her arms, trying to look formidable.

“Stop it, Haley. You’ve been calling me ‘J.J.’ for months. There’s no reason to go all formal.”

“Isn’t there?” Hotch’s wife raised one brow, surveying the pretty blonde who was entirely too comfortable around Aaron. She hoped her stark scrutiny would cow the liaison into submissiveness. Didn’t work.

“No, there isn’t. Especially when Penelope and I have walked you through some pretty intimate information when it comes to getting what you want from Hotch.” J.J. glanced around the foyer. “Can we sit down?” It was a reminder that Mrs. Hotchner was being remiss in her hostess duties; something that must be honored no matter how one felt about one’s guests.

Trying to hide a frisson of irritation, Haley inclined her head toward the kitchen. Before the two women disappeared through the doorway, however, Reid’s thready voice called out from halfway up the stairs. “J.J.? You coming?”

The liaison paused. “In a bit. I have some other stuff to take care of first.”

“O-k-a-y…” Reid’s worried eyes watched her follow his boss’ wife out of sight. He was grateful for J.J.’s company and felt bad about abandoning her, but he knew his own worth. It didn’t lay in confronting Haley. He’d be useless.

Thinking his teammate was a very brave woman indeed, Reid continued on up to his preferred destination: Hotch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley motioned for J.J. to take a chair. It was a lukewarm invitation at best.

“I don’t see that we have much to talk about.”

“Oh, but we do.” J.J. sat down, setting an oversized purse on the floor beside her. “Haley, what happened?”

“What do you mean?” She’d done her duty by showing her guest to a seat, but Haley refused to take one herself. It allowed her to look down on the other woman, and served as a reminder that this was not a cordial meeting of equals.

J.J. reached into the purse at her feet. “I mean _this_.” She pulled out a pristine, white paper bag and set it on the tabletop. Pushing it toward Hotch’s wife, she lowered her voice. “This is what started it all. Have you forgotten?”

Haley’s eyes dropped to the small package. “What is it?”

“See for yourself.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Haley pulled the bag closer, folding it open to reveal its contents. The lines of her face sagged.

Bright with colorful, cheerful promise, a home pregnancy kit peeped out at her.

She swallowed. “Why did you bring me this? To remind me of what a failure I am?” Haley’s eyes darkened with bitterness. She folded her hands together in an effort to hide their trembling.

“No. God, _no._ ” J.J.’s voice continued soft and warm. She searched Haley’s features, looking for the woman who’d pleaded with her in a mall food court, asking for help in what felt like ages past. She had to be there. Hiding. Buried beneath several months-worth of misunderstandings and misadventures. “I brought it here to remind you why you came to us…to Penelope and me…to members of Hotch’s team…in the first place.”

“I was wrong…okay? I admit it. I shouldn’t have done that.” Haley’s voice shuddered with suppressed emotion. “Fine. You win. I was wrong. You’re right. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No. O-h-h….no, no, no, no, no…” J.J. tried to capture the other woman’s glance, hoping eyes would communicate what words hadn’t. She’d rarely encountered someone who seemed to work so hard at misinterpretation. It was counter-productive. Unnecessary. And, therefore, sad.  “Haley, please. Sit down and listen. Please?”

Hotch’s wife might have refused, but there was something about the liaison. She didn’t have the pack mentality of Prentiss. Her power was equal, but different. It came from a place of cooperation rather than one of challenge.

Haley sat, but grudgingly. She wanted to be sure her compliance wasn’t read as relinquishing control by obeying. As it was, she detested the warm prickling behind her eyes. This was not a time for the weakness of tears.

J.J. pulled the bag up around the pregnancy kit, covering it. She didn’t want Haley taking it as a slight. Concealed, its presence was still undeniably powerful. It sat between the two women like unasked-for common ground.

“Haley, you didn’t make a mistake. _We_ did. All of us. We screwed everything up in our own individual ways, but we all did it for the same reason.” She pushed the little package a few inches closer to Hotch’s wife. “We all wanted you and Hotch to become parents. And even after everything that went wrong; all the hurt feelings and angry words…even though I know it’s none of my business and I should have stayed out of it…” J.J.’s eyes shimmered with compassionate understanding. “…even now, I’d still love to see a picture on Hotch’s desk of a brand new, little family all his own. That’s really the only thing that matters. Everything else is just temporary. Obstacles and errors that will fade and disappear.”

She pushed the package the rest of the way across the table, depositing it squarely before Haley. “Don’t give up. And don’t be angry. We can’t step completely out of your life, because Hotch is important to all of us. But we can step aside when it comes to _this_.”

Haley stared at the peace offering. Nothing was solved when it came to the intrusions and dangers attendant on Aaron’s job. But J.J. had a point. _Focus. Take it step by step. Baby comes first, then the rest will fall into place. Then Aaron will come to his senses. Focus._

Hotch’s wife took a deep breath, letting it go in a long, slow exhalation. She nodded. “You’re right. You’re right…”

She’d been about to say ‘Thank you,’ but stopped short. She didn’t want J.J. to think that this was anything more than a temporary truce.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Feeling some bridges had been mended and battered feelings soothed, but still sensing unease in Haley’s presence, J.J. pushed her chair back from the table.

“I should probably collect Spence and get out of here.” She noticed Haley didn’t demure with a polite invitation to stay longer. “Mind if I go up and see Hotch for a minute?”

 _Well at least **this** one asked._ Haley didn’t think there was any way to stop her husband’s teammates from descending on him once they were through the front door. At least, not in any way she would consider acceptable. Not since the coffee attack had backfired anyway.

“I’ll show you the way.” _And once you’re out of here, Aaron and I will still have the evening together._ That thought managed to trace the faintest of smiles across Haley’s lips.

J.J. recognized the reluctance masquerading behind Haley's grudging courtesy; her hesitation in granting another woman access to the more private upstairs area. She followed meekly behind her hostess, wondering why there was no sound of male conversation coming from whatever room Reid and Hotch were in .The answer became clear when Haley paused in the entrance to the master bedroom, a frown of displeasure creasing her brow. J.J. moved up beside her and took in the scene.

Reid sat in a chair by the bedside, idly leafing through the files that were the reason he’d come. Flat on the bed, lips slightly parted, limbs splayed, Hotch was clearly dead to the world.

The young doctor swallowed when he saw the accusation in Haley’s eyes. “I…I got him to take his pain meds.”

Hotch’s wife approached, gazing down at the unconscious face of her mate.

 _So even with Aaron home, I’m on my own for another evening._ Aloud, her voice was flat, expressionless. “If you got what you came for, agents, I’ll see you out now.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch dreamt that night; a tumult of vivid, sporadic images.

He saw a little girl’s blood covering him and for a moment could not recall her name.

Until he saw the parents. Heard them wailing for their lost angels…Angel…Angie. Little Angie. That was it. But there had been two girls. Sisters. Try as he could, Aaron couldn’t remember the other girl’s name.

He woke damp with sweat and fear and sudden understanding. The parents’ faces. Their grief. The loss of not just children, loved in their own right, but of what they represented. Not only the immortality of continuance, but souvenirs of the glorious miracle that had been the meeting of the parents. Not DNA alone, but the convergence of two people, finding each other against all the odds of the billions walking the earth.

The proof that such an unlikely thing could happen and have lasting results. The beautiful defiance in the face of overwhelming statistics.

All that. Lost.

Hotch turned his head, seeing his wife asleep on the pillow beside him. A small crease between her eyes. Some unknown agitation of the night.   _Or maybe it’s my fault, because I haven’t really been on the same road, traveling by her side the way she’d hoped I would. Or maybe she’s dreaming the same thing and that would be another impossibly strange thing..._ In the lingering aftermath of these vaguely illogical impressions, something shifted inside Hotch and he thought he understood. If not with logic, then with his heart.

_There are no guarantees. This is about celebration, not safety. The world is a disorganized, dangerous mess. But sometimes there is magic._

In the dark warmth of the night, he reached for Haley, nuzzling his need into the angle between her neck and shoulder. Wanting… without analyzing for once the consequences and risks. Ignoring the dull throb in his side. Finally catching her desire like a virus.

And unaware that his wish had already been granted.

Unaware that J.J. had brought his wife an olive branch; a gift of impeccable timing.

 


	122. Soft Boiled

Rossi found Razz wandering the residential streets of Quantico, alternately lost in thought or gazing about at the manicured yards and warmly-lit windows as another day came to a close.

Although he’d called for a  ride, the therapist didn’t notice the BMW drawing even and then keeping pace with him until Dave tapped the horn, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Hey! Yous gonna geddin or wha…?” Rossi laid on his Long Island accent, sounding almost gangster-ish and making Razz’s laugh ring out. The therapist pulled open the passenger side door, took a seat, and buckled himself in. Rossi pulled away, maintaining a slow speed in deference to the joggers, dogs and bicyclists enjoying the smoky twilight.

“So. How’d it go? Any breakthroughs?”

Razz’s soft snort of an exhale was answer enough.

“Hmmm. I see.” Rossi glanced at his companion. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Can’t, but…” The therapist’s sigh was tinged with nostalgia. “…I’d forgotten how beautiful Quantico can be in the evening. All the political secrets and subterfuge that comprise this town’s main industry…I’d forgotten what a serene exterior the residents cultivate. As though they’re in denial.”

Rossi’s ears pricked up. _He wouldn’t be thinking along those lines unless Haley put them in his mind._ _Then again…he never did like the broader sweeps of the politician’s brush. Might just be a critique in general of the Quantico lifestyle._ “Since this is your last night in town for a while, you wanna go anywhere special for dinner? My treat?”

Razz pulled himself away from his private musings, giving Rossi a closer inspection. “Well, _that’s_ a generous offer.” A small smile of pure evil sketched its way across his lips. “S-o-o-o… is The Starlight Piazza still in business?”

The therapist pretended not to see Rossi blanch at the wheel. The Starlight Piazza was where powerbrokers met, impressions were made, alliances formed, allegiances pledged and the potent institution of reciprocity set in motion to the tune of $1200 dinners.

Razz indulged in a luxurious stretch, ending on a satisfied sigh. “Thank you, Dave. Freshly imported Kobe beef and just-caught, wild, Scottish salmon would be a great way to cap off this visit. Thanks for suggesting it.”

Rossi muttered something vile under his breath, glaring sidelong at his passenger.

Razz let him stew as they drove to within a half-block of The Starlight before changing his mind and saying he’d prefer pizza instead.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“So what put your nose out of joint, huh?”

Rossi swirled a glass of merlot and watched Razz savoring his third slice of caramelized onions, asparagus and gruyere pizza. The therapist finished chewing before settling back with his own glass of wine. Despite the excellent dinner at Dave’s favorite gourmet Italian eatery, Razz’s smile was conspicuously absent.

“Confidentiality, my friend. Can’t give details.”

Rossi might have shrugged and let it go, but this was Razz’s last night in town. He’d come to help out of the goodness of his heart, and no matter the outcome, Dave didn’t want him to leave with regrets, or feeling like a failure.

“Ben, I can’t pretend to understand any woman, let alone Haley Hotchner, but I’d like to think I understand her husband. We’ve already agreed to avoid discussing Aaron’s early years, but everything else is fair game. So…let’s talk about the man as he is today. It’ll incorporate the effects of his past, but…” Rossi thumped his glass down on the table, frustrated. “Look, in the interest of time, I think Hotch was an abused child. Let’s not go there, but, believe me, I understand how that can play into his current situation. So can we move past that and can you tell me anything else that I can use to help him after you leave?”

Razz set his own glass down as well, but with slow, studied deliberation. “Maybe I’ve had too much wine. I don’t want to inadvertently cross any lines and betray Aaron’s trust. Or Haley’s. Or anyone’s for that matter.”

“You won’t. Just tell me what’s going on with Hotch and what I can do. Or what the team can do.”

“Okay. No details.” The therapist rubbed a hand over his eyes and fell silent, his gaze vacant, trained on nothing in particular. Rossi waited. At last, Razz nodded to himself and turned, training a sharper regard on his friend.

“Benign neglect. That’s how you and the team need to treat Aaron right now. Benign neglect.”

“Could you be a _little_ more specific?”

Taking a deep breath, Razz relaxed into his explanation. “It’s a term I came to understand after I lost my wife. I was pretty bad. For some reason my daughters thought it would be… _therapeutic_ …” His lips quirked with the irony of applying the word to himself, considering his profession. “…to give me something to take care of. After the funeral the girls had to get back to their own lives and they were worried about their old Dad. Before they left, each of my daughters gave me an African violet.” This time Razz’s grin turned wistful with remembrance.

“They had this idea that if I felt responsible for looking after a living thing, I wouldn’t sink quite as low as otherwise. So: African violets were intended to be my saviors.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah. Kinda did. I’d shuffle by these things on the windowsill and, because they were unfamiliar, I’d notice them. The girls would ask if I was taking care of them every time they called. I didn’t want to disappoint my kids by killing their gifts to me, so I’d shuffle by, stop for a minute and stare. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, but I had to be able to say how they were doing the next time the girls asked. After a while, I’d shuffle by and stop and notice the plants needed water. A while longer and I was deadheading the spent blossoms and noticing new buds appearing. I spent more and more time staring at those things.”

Razz’s grin tilted, sad and bittersweet. “One day I noticed how pretty they were. And that’s the day I realized I would heal. Once I returned to a semblance of participation in life, I looked up how to care for African violets properly. ‘Benign neglect.’ It’ll work in your circumstances, too. Treat Aaron with benign neglect. That means none of you overwhelm him the way you have been with good intentions. You let him be, but, if you happen to pass by and notice he’s a little wilted, you remedy the situation with a gentle, almost indifferent hand. Shore him up when he needs it. Not before. Don’t make his decisions for him. Listen to him and talk to him, but let him lead the way.”

Pausing, Razz sighed. “Aaron’s his own kind of mess. So’s his wife. I can’t heal them in a couple of days, Dave. No one can. But what I did get from this visit tells me what I’ve known all along, since day one: that boy is so very much _worth_ saving. It’s my personal opinion that he’s on the cusp of a very dangerous time, psychologically.” The therapist leaned forward, earnest light in his eyes. “He’s been hurt. Badly. Badly enough to make him reluctant to let anyone new into his life. To him, relationships, particularly the familial type, are either precursors of terrible pain or include that agony in their very fabric by definition. He’s not sure how much more he can endure. So, fatherhood…”

Rossi closed his eyes, understanding. “So he’s facing fatherhood, the most intense emotional, familial experience he’ll ever have, and he thinks it might destroy him.”

Razz raised his glass in a toast to the profiler’s perception. “Exactly.”

“And Haley’s not helping.”

“Again…exactly. But she _does_ love him, Dave. It’s just that she has her own demons to deal with.”

Silence fell. Wine was sipped. The deepening night visible beyond the tastefully draped restaurant windows was appreciated. Finally, Rossi spoke in a soft, almost fearful tone.

“Razz, is it a mistake for those two to become parents?”

“No. At least, not the way I see it.”

Hotch’s best friend was comforted by how quickly the reply had come. But he needed more. “How _do_ you see it? Can you tell me?”

Leaning his elbows on the table, the therapist took a moment to order his thoughts. “I know it’s never a good idea to bring a child into the world in hopes of repairing a relationship, but I have a gut feeling I can’t ignore in this case.”

Rossi’s brows rose, inviting more.

“I think it’ll take a child’s hand to reach into your Aaron’s heart and unlock it. And when that happens, he’ll release a good part of his fear. Hell, I’ll go even further. He’ll be a deeply happy man. And a wonderful father.” Razz’s voice grew softer. “I’ve tried to explain that to him, but…” He shrugged. “…words, ya know? Aaron needs to feel it before he’ll believe it. Needs to take that leap of faith.”

Rossi nodded. “What about Haley? Anything you can tell me?”

The therapist didn’t feel as free to discuss Hotch’s wife as he did Hotch himself. He felt he’d said enough. “I’m not a marriage counselor, Dave. Can’t fix them. Sorry.” Pushing his wine glass away, he stood, signaling they should be on their way home.

Both men were pensive and quiet as they stepped out into the night. Razz breathed deeply, looking up at the starlit sky.

“Yeah. I’d forgotten how pretty Quantico can be. Nights like this are made for romance.”

Rossi chuckled, motioning toward his car with a hand gripping a doggie bag. “C’mon, you old softie. Let’s go home. You can give Mudgie the leftovers and he’ll lick your face. Make you feel loved.”

“Fat dog, Dave. Gonna have a fat dog.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Something had changed.

Haley was roused from slumber by a gentle, warm, unstoppable avalanche. It had none of the earmarks of how Aaron normally made love. The consideration bordering on trepidation was gone. He didn’t hug. He engulfed. He consumed. He overwhelmed. He didn’t ask. He imposed himself on her.

She loved it.

Midway, Haley couldn’t help giggling at this marvelous, male animal who knew what he wanted and was bent on achieving it with every ounce of testosterone-fueled skill at his disposal.

“Aaron?” Her voice effervesced with surprised joy. “Aaron, what’s got into you?”

There was a rumbling growl as teeth nibbled at her, but no words. Intrigued, she maneuvered herself into a position where she could see his face.

Tears glistened in the faint light that passed over the windowsill. Streetlamps, stars, and a crescent moon picked out silvery paths down Hotch’s lean jaw.

“Aaron? Sweetheart?” _Oh, God…his stitches! Is he pulling them out? Must be! Something’s hurting him!_ Catching his face between anxious palms, she brought him eye to eye. “Aaron…what is it?”

“Time. It’s time.” His voice was rough velvet.

Then, with strength he rarely used at home, he disengaged her hands, extracted himself from her grip, and got back to the business of babies.

Words had no place that night in the Hotchner bed. Aaron wouldn’t have been able to explain that his tears had nothing to do with physical pain. But everything to do with the kind of defeat that comes with hard-won wisdom; with the recognition that tragedy and heartbreak aren’t unique strikes from an unkind fate. They’re the things that walk beside you and sit down at your table. They watch you and keep pace with you.

The real wonder of it was, that they showed themselves so seldom.

And Aaron was tired of being afraid.


	123. Syrup-Throated Swallow

Tuesday morning was conspicuous for its lack of schedule.

Improvisation was the order of the day.

Razz found that the next flight he could book back to Boston wasn’t until noon. He told Rossi to go to work; that he’d take a cab to the airport. Finally alone, sitting on the sunlit patio, he set his mind on the tasks that would be waiting for him when he returned to his own office. But the BAU team and its Unit Chief kept intruding on his thoughts.

He stared at Mudgie’s long body splayed in wanton enjoyment of sun-warmed, terracotta paving stones.

“Wha’d’you think, Mudge…should I give it one more shot? Stop by and pester the Hotchners one more time for the road?”

He took the slow, single thump of the dog’s tail as agreement.

“Alright then.” The therapist gathered his belongings, called a taxi service and left the Rossi mansion.

But not before he had one last word with the resident canine.

“I’m sorry I called you ‘fat,’ Mudgie. Don’t tell Dave, but you’re comfortably huggable. And…uh…thanks for letting me use your blanket.”

Rossi had assured his guest that everything was freshly laundered, but since the dog had taken every opportunity to make a territorial point by rolling and napping on it, ownership of Razz’s bedding remained debatable.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Passion and painkillers had reset Hotch’s internal alarm clock.

He opened one bleary eye and tried to make sense of the sunlight streaming through the window. After a moment he realized it was long past the time he usually woke. Unaccustomed lethargy kept his body still. Eventually, cogent thought began a slow return, replacing fuzzy impressions.

_I feel stupid._

Hotch wasn’t used to a less than scalpel-keen mind. He waited for intelligence to fully reassert itself. In the wake of escalating brain power, came physical sensations. His side gave a dull throb before settling into a lesser, but regular rhythm of ache.

_Probably shouldn’t be lying on my stomach. Probably should turn over._

In small, clumsy increments he rearranged himself onto his back. And became aware that something…no…some _one_ …was missing.

He was alone. A brief frisson of pride swelled his chest as vivid memories of his athletic performance of the previous night returned. It was followed by an equal dose of concern.

_I hope I didn’t hurt her! But she didn’t really ask me to stop. But she’s not here! But…!_

A sound in the hall made him turn his head.

The bedroom door stood ajar. The gap widened along with Hotch’s eyes. Pushing through was the leading edge of a tray that bore a breakfast feast fit for a king. It was followed in short order by Haley’s smile.

Hotch understood for the first time what people meant when they termed a woman ‘glowing.’ His pride in the night’s activities swelled a little more.

 **_I_ ** _did that._

His spouse approached with her offering and beamed down at him. “Good morning, husband.” In silence the couple stared at each other, unstoppable grins spreading.

“Good morning, wife.”

The overladen tray was too heavy. Haley found a place for it on the bedspread, careful to keep orange juice and coffee from sloshing onto the plates filled to overflowing with bacon, sausage, ham, pancakes, eggs, condiments galore…

“I thought you’d be hungry…you know…after all that.”

With uncharacteristic daring fueled by Haley’s glow, Hotch stretched his arms over his head, baiting her to admire him. He thought his heart would burst when she did. Filled with appreciation, her eyes traveled his length and back. Her happy, fulfilled sigh was one of the best gifts he’d ever received.

But then her gaze traveled a repeat route and…stopped. A line appeared between her eyes. “Oh, Aaron. Your side…”

He could feel it throbbing, but it wasn’t bad. Well, not _too_ bad. “What…?” Hotch craned his neck to look down at himself. “Oh. That.” The sight wasn’t alarming, but the wound was definitely redder and a little puffy around the stitches.

“Oh, Sweetheart.” Haley sat by his side, reaching tentative fingers across his stomach toward the damaged skin. “That’s why you were crying, isn’t it? Does it hurt _very_ much?” Before he could respond, she continued, shaking her head. “Maybe I should make that doctor’s appointment for you early. Oh…Aaron…” He couldn’t know that fear like an icy blade was piercing its way up from depths his wife didn’t even suspect she harbored. _Things that accumulate enough damage will be taken from you…_

“Haley, it’s nothing.”

“But it made you cry.”

Hotch swallowed. “It didn’t. Can’t we just pretend that never happened?” Looking up at her, his gaze held a heartfelt wish to return to the bliss of a moment ago.

Haley bit her lip, pulling back from touching the injury that looked so angry against her husband’s pale skin. “But I saw you. Can’t you tell me why?”

His heart beat faster. _Didn’t I decide to give in already? Didn’t I decide to commit? Wasn’t that what last night was about? Talk to her!_

“I cried because I was scared.” He felt his lips go dry. “I still am.”

Haley frowned, giving her head a phantom shake; one that was barely there. She felt her own terror floating within her, unformed and unnamed, and tied to this beautiful man in a way she couldn’t explain. Surely they couldn’t share the same fear…?

Hotch pulled himself up, bracing his back against the headboard. “Haley…how much really did you learn about Bluefields? About when I was growing up?” There was no escaping his dark intensity. _Does she know I was raised as a punching bag? Does she know parental patterns are passed from generation to generation?_

Haley felt her own demons stirring inside her. She fell back on evasive tactics that had served her well so far. With purposeful movements, she pulled a plate from the tray she’d brought, forking pancakes and sausages onto it. “You should eat while it’s warm, Sweetheart.”

Hotch’s focus was on the conversation, not the food. He stared at her profile, wondering if she’d answer, peripherally aware that she was preparing his breakfast. Until he gasped…completely and thoroughly distracted.

“Oops!” Haley’s over-sweet voice had a mischievous edge.

And a delicate part of Hotch’s anatomy had acquired a dollop of maple syrup. He blinked at it, and then caught his breath again as his wife decided to remedy the spillage in a most delightful way.

Of course, it precluded any pursuit of the discussion of the roots of their respective fears.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch felt like a prize stallion who had been put through his paces and left in a happy, sordid state. And this time he’d exerted almost no effort. Haley was leaning over him, glowing like a burnished pearl, and feeding him small bites of delicious, syrup-impregnated, warm pancake.

When he was finally too full to ingest another morsel, Haley leaned in close to his ear. “Only one more question….Who do I call to take a look at your stitches?”

Weary as he was, Hotch couldn’t help smiling. “The Bureau contracts with medical facilities. I’m already on their charts…” He gave his wife a stern look. “Especially since _someone_ made them evaluate me for an _extended_ leave.”

Haley took advantage of her man’s depleted condition, knowing he couldn’t really dispute her. “I was scared. I want you healthy. I’ll do anything to make that happen.” Her lips imprinted against his forehead.  “So…” She increased the wicked index of her smile. “I’ll keep you with me as long as I can.”

Hotch’s grin wavered. “Haley…My beautiful wife…you can’t…”

He might have continued. No, he surely _would_ have…but the doorbell chimed in an insistent way. The Hotchners’ eyes met. Aaron wasn’t sure if he saw relief in hers. But he knew another opportunity to discuss something important was slipping away.

“I’ll go.”

Haley relinquished her hold on both breakfast and man. She minced her way out the door and down the stairs in her ostrich-puff slippers; sure that whomever or whatever was requesting admittance could be easily dismissed, but glad for the interruption that let her avoid addressing Aaron’s concerns.

Then opening the door made her realize the issues that lay between them wouldn’t disappear, because the outside world had become involved. On the step was a man, smiling in a warm, disarming way, holding before him an offering. An unexpected gift.

An African violet.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Hotchner.” Razz gave his best please-let-me-in-the-door smile.

“Dr. Rasmussen.” The words fell between them with a shocked tone of wonder reserved for unpleasant surprises.

“I’m leaving today. Flying back to Boston.” He raised the small, potted plant toward the slightly slack-jawed woman before him. “Just wanted to thank you for your time…and wondered if I could have a little more of your husband’s?”

Haley’s glance toward the second floor was involuntary. The image of Hotch splayed out among their breakfast detritus wasn’t one for public consumption. And she still couldn’t believe this man had turned up at her home again. “I…uh…Aaron’s not…uh…”

“I know I should have called, but coming by was a spur-of-the-moment impulse.” He pushed the African violet with its profuse burden of blossoms closer. “I’ll only be a moment. And I wanted you to have this.”

At last, Haley wrapped her fingers around the gift. “It’s lovely. But…why?”

Razz shrugged, his smile going lopsided. “Not sure. But one like it helped me get through a rough patch. I just thought of you and wished I could make you feel better.”

Haley stiffened her spine. “I’m fine. Really. I’m sorry if I alarmed you before…I’m _fine_.” She stepped backwards, granting access to her home. “But thank you. It’s a kind gesture.”

Razz stepped through the door. “Alright for me to go up?” He gave an inward sigh, watching this woman’s mask slide back into place. He wondered if she was ever without it. It would be a lonely life indeed, if she maintained a façade of superior propriety even with her husband.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve had rather a late morning. If you’ll wait down here, I’ll see if Aaron’s up to a visit.”

“Of course.” The therapist stepped to one side. Watching Hotch’s wife ascend the stairs, he wondered if she knew that her perfect mask was marred. Something had dried in an amber-colored streak across her chin.

It looked suspiciously like maple syrup.

 


	124. Egg Timer

Razz heard soft voices and movements coming from the Hotchners’ second floor.

The clinking of china and the passing minutes made him wonder if he’d interrupted something other than normal routine. He was on the verge of changing his mind about coming, and debating the wisdom of shouting up the staircase that he was sorry to have barged in and he’d let himself out. But then Haley reappeared, balancing a large tray covered with the remains of what looked like enough breakfast for a contingent of ravenous wolverines.

Razz rushed forward to relieve her of her burden. “Mrs. Hotchner, let me help you with that.”

Haley kept a tight grip. In truth, if she gave up the tray, she’d have to rebalance herself on her dainty slippers. She preferred completing her descent without the indignity of stumbling. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ve got it.” Her glance turned toward the upper landing. “My husband said to ask you to come up, but…” She looked back at her visitor.

“But you don’t want me to tire him out.” Razz smiled. “I understand. I won’t be long. Promise.”

Nodding, Haley continued downward, kitchen-bound. But her lips pressed into a thin line as she heard the therapist taking the steps two at a time.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Razz reached the bedroom door just as Hotch was coming through it.

The men’s eyes met, exchanging companionable smiles and nods.

Hotch moved with the measured pace of a man not quite up to par. “Morning. This way.”

When Razz realized he was being directed toward the guest room where their previous discussion had taken place, he couldn’t help glancing over his host’s shoulder into the master suite. His brows rose at the sight of some serious disarray. Bedding and clothing were strewn about. Large, coffee-colored stains decorated a good portion of carpet and some of the furniture. It wasn’t the modest tableau he had glimpsed on his last visit.

Razz hid his grin. _Either housekeeping has taken a backseat in the Hotchner’s list of priorities…or the bedroom is seeing a lot more action. Either way…not my business._

Once in the tidy environs of the guest bedroom, Hotch sat on the mattress edge while Razz took the chair he’d occupied last time. The therapist’s smile faded as graver matters than a couple’s bedroom antics took center stage.

He surveyed Hotch, noting he was favoring his side. “I’m headed for the airport from here, Aaron. I wanted to say goodbye and explain something, the importance of which is debatable. And offer an apology.”

“I appreciate your coming here. It means a lot to me that you were willing to talk to my team. I hope they took advantage of the opportunity.”

Razz recognized the statement’s veiled curiosity. The Unit Chief wanted to know how his colleagues were, but also respected their privacy and wouldn’t ask that anything confidential be revealed.

“I think your team is a fine group of people. And they’re very devoted to you, young Aaron.”

Hotch sighed. “I’ve said before: I’m not young.”

Razz nodded, studying his hands folded in his lap before looking up. “Have you ever had a pet? A puppy or a kitten?” He was reminded of when he’d called Hotch ‘son.’ Something dark passed across the man, affecting both posture and expression. _More damage from his formative years, no doubt._

“Uh…no. I never had pets growing up. Wasn’t that kind of childhood…you know?” The furtive glance directed toward Razz told him to proceed with care.

“Well, I did. Had a mongrel pup when my girls were small. Cutest little thing. Smart, too. Grew into a fifty-pound bruiser of a hound, but gentle as a lamb. Thing is…” He leaned closer. “…no matter how big that dog got, somehow I always saw the puppy standing before me. Wife and kids saw him the same way. Works like that with people, too. It’s a strange kind of double vision. My daughters are grown women, and I can see that. But I also can’t look at them without seeing the little girls they were.”

Razz ducked his head. “It’s the same with you, Aaron. I know you’ve come a long way. Risen high and done exemplary work. But I look at you and I see that kid being pushed forward by mentors he didn’t even know were behind him…all fierce attitude and a sense of justice.” He reached out, tapping the center of Hotch’s chest. “He’s still in there. That boy. Doesn’t matter how old you get, whenever I look at you, I’ll see him.”

Hotch pulled in on himself a fraction; unsure how to respond to being told he was still perceived as a youngster, when being young equated with his childhood. Being young meant you were helpless in so many ways. A victim unless and until you could claim age or strength as your shield.

Razz saw the hesitancy. “That doesn’t mean I see you as inept. Your track record and your team’s esteem tell me quite the opposite. What it _does_ mean is I see a vulnerability that will probably be with you for the rest of your life.”

The wary look was still in Hotch’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re a soft heart in a tough world and an even tougher profession.” The therapist raised his brows, daring Aaron to deny the truth of his assessment. “And that’s the root of your emotional buildup, which is the cause of your occasional breakdowns or outbursts or whatever you want to call the release of all that pent-up pressure. It won’t go away as long as you immerse yourself in the attendant horrors of your chosen career.”

Hotch’s head lowered, gaze going vacant. _My God, does Haley have a point? **Am** I in the wrong job?_ “Are you saying I should quit the FBI? The BAU?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Razz saw the distress he’d caused. Moving closer, he gripped the Unit Chief’s shoulders, hoping to make his words penetrate. “You _are_ in the right place, Aaron. Talking to your team made that clear. _But_ …” His fingers tightened, giving Hotch a small shake for emphasis. “…the price you will pay is the turmoil inside. It’s a lousy situation to be in. I believe if you were in any other field than active, hands-on, law enforcement, you’d be miserable. You’d feel you were wasting your life and the same emotional pressure would still build inside you. It would just come from a different place is all.”

Hotch was shaking his head, searching for a way out. “No. No, that can’t be true. If it were, I’d have broken long before now. It’s just the last several months that have been hard.”

Razz bent, trying to engage Aaron’s downcast eyes. “And what added pressure entered your life during those few months?” The therapist felt a surge of sympathy as he watched the connection being made.

Hotch’s head lifted. He fixed the other man with a tragic look. “Wanting a family?” He blinked, eyes filling. “Is this some kind of sign that I shouldn’t? Does this mean when something goes wrong I’ll lose it? I’ll turn into my fath…” The words froze, but Razz knew what they would have been.

“No. Aaron, look at me.” He tried to break through Hotch’s icy shock. “I’ve already told you, I think you’ll be a wonderful father. The point I’m trying to make now is that you’re overloaded. Even _that_ isn’t an accurate description of your situation.” He rubbed the tense shoulders between his palms. “Let me explain.

“Your problem isn’t that you can’t handle the pressure. It’s that you don’t have the safety valves most people do.” Razz knew he was approaching dangerous ground. “You’re not letting yourself relax on the job or off. Maybe you’re trying to be perfect or in control all the time. It’s my personal opinion that having a child will open up new ground for you. Your perspective will change. You’ll realize you don’t have to stand in judgment of yourself so much.” He gave Hotch’s shoulders another gentle shake. “You’ll let go a little. You'll relax.

“You need to trust in that, Aaron. It’ll get you through. I know that’s hard for someone whose past has taught him that good things are unlikely to happen to him.”

Hotch looked up, eyes sharp. Suspicious of the therapist’s subtext.

Razz sighed. Sitting back, he released the Unit Chief, giving him a final pat. “It’s not your fault, and maybe I’m speaking out of turn, but I’m betting that when something good _does_ happen, you can’t truly enjoy it, because you think it’s a mistake, or that it’ll be taken away, or that you’ll be punished later. All patterns that were set early on. They’re not gonna go away overnight, but being aware of them could help you work around them.”

Taking in another deep breath and exhaling it in a huff, the therapist shrugged. “Anyway, that’s how I see things…young Aaron.”

Hotch’s dark, solemn eyes searched his visitor’s face. He could feel his respiration had increased. He knew other physiological signs must be apparent to this man who studied troubled people for a living. He thought deflection would be a viable tactic. “Earlier, you said you came to apologize. For what?”

Razz let his own gaze drop. “For not being able to help you more. This has been a very informative few days, but…well…it’s not enough.”

He met Hotch’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I'm pretty much leaving you as I found you.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley heard the men coming down the stairs.

Their pace was slow. She knew Aaron had exerted himself too much and must be feeling the effects in his side. Still, the memory brought a small, sly smile to her lips.

She busied herself putting away leftovers and cleaning up the evidence of the epic breakfast she’d prepared. As she rinsed dishes, her eye fell on the African violet Razz had brought. She’d placed it on the windowsill above the sink. _It really is very pretty._ It was the second gift she’d been given in as many days.

First, J.J. had presented her with a home pregnancy kit…then the violet… _and it’s **more** than two if you count Aaron’s, uh…contributions…_ Something about the trend gave Haley a good feeling, as though the scales by which fate was measured were tipping in her favor. She was tempted to break into J.J.’s gift, but told herself it would be a waste. Aaron hadn’t been home long enough for their efforts to be detectable.

 _At least…not with a home test._ Haley raised her head, looking past the violet at her own reflection in the glass. _Blood tests are more accurate. I bet they can get results earlier, too._ _I wonder…_

She stared at her own eyes, dimly mirrored. _If I make an appointment for Aaron at the end of the week…as long as we’re there…in a doctor’s office…maybe they wouldn’t mind…_ Haley told herself not to let her hopes run away with her. She’d been disappointed too many times before.

_But Aaron’s been so…so… **attentive** lately._

She focused on the violet again, noticing something she hadn’t before. With the tip of a lacquered fingernail she lifted one of the broad, velvety leaves. A wealth of new buds were just beginning to unfurl beneath its shelter. Tiny clusters of new life.

Haley’s breath caught. Her heart sped up. _It’s a sign!_

Her lips compressed into a stern, determined line. No matter what Aaron said, she was going to make him an appointment for that Friday. And she would be right at his side.

 


	125. Double Yolked

The Hotchner household fell into a pleasant, undemanding routine for the next few days.

At least, Haley thought it was pleasant.

She loved knowing Aaron would be beside her when she woke. She loved knowing the phone wouldn’t ring at any moment, demanding he vault from bed and take on all manner of monsters for whom his life was nothing more than an obstacle to be put aside. She adored planning meals she knew would be eaten. Every time she passed him, she’d touch him, reassuring herself of his presence. Sometimes, when Aaron was in his den, online or going through personal files, she’d cat-foot to the door and peek around the corner, drinking him in. The little thrill that shot through her at having him where she wanted him served to reinforce her determination to make this the norm.

Then she’d chide herself and amend that goal to having him home every evening and every weekend…after all, he did need to work. Just not at something that usurped his…and consequently her…entire life. She’d gaze at him and dream.

To a bystander, it might have looked like gloating.

Hotch, on the other hand, although he appreciated the care and rest and cherishing he felt coming from his wife, was increasingly restless. He longed for more case files to read, but his hope of getting any vanished early on. Rossi had contacted him to say the team had been called out. He’d check in as he could, but no promises of regular communication.

The best Hotch could do was get the general gist from Garcia and then ask her to email him the details. When he read them, his desire to join the team was a physical urge so strong it might have manifested as an allergic reaction. The Unit Chief scratched at his arms, wondering if it was possible to break out in hives out of the sheer need to be running with his pack.

The unsub had already been dubbed by the press. The Zip Strangler. Garcia’s voice communicated the horror of the method. “Because of zip ties. You know those plastic, serrated thingies? That some stores use to fasten stuff together ‘cause it’s impossible to open them without cutting through the plastic? You know?”

“Yes, Garcia. I know.”

“Well…Sir…I guess you can get them at hardware stores in whatever length you want…you know, like custom-sized…and…and…this guy is, uh, he overpowers, uh, female victims and zips them around their necks…and…and…there’s no way to get them off unless someone helps you, I guess…so…all they can do is scrabble at them…and it’s a really slow way to…well…you know…” The tech analyst trailed off, leaving a sick feeling in the pit of Hotch’s stomach.

“Garcia?”

“Sir?”

“Female victims…?”

She knew what he was asking, and dreaded giving the answer. “Oh, Sir…Girls, Sir. Children.”

The silence on both ends of the line thundered with one man’s rage and one woman’s grief.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley didn’t know why Hotch was so subdued that evening.

She knew he’d been in his den for a few hours; the schedule they’d agreed upon that would define the boundaries of his bringing work and the BAU into their home. When he joined her on the couch in the living room, she might as well have been sitting beside a mannequin whose enamel eyes were fixed on nothing at all.

“Aaron, Sweetheart?” She rested the palm of one hand against his cheek. “What is it? You’re not with me tonight.” She pressed, forcing his face toward her. “Aaron?”

At last the dark eyes blinked…focused. “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m…” He trailed off.

“It’s work, isn’t it.” Her leaden tone made it a statement, not a question. Hotch could hear the bitter undercurrent.

“I’m sorry. It’s bad. Children.”

“But you’re not on it, Darling. Can’t you leave it alone?” Haley’s mouth puckered in a sour moue. “No. Of course you can’t.”

The Hotchners stared at each other. Then Mrs. wrapped Mr. in a hug and pulled him close, pulling him down, tucking his head under her chin. Anger, defeat and disgust washed through her until her glance found the little violet, barely visible through the archway leading to the kitchen. She closed her eyes. _I’ve received gifts over the last few days. Maybe it’s my turn to give something._ She tightened her arms around her husband. “Alright, alright. If you won’t let it go, then at least let it out? Talk to me, Aaron.”

“You won’t want to hear this. I don’t want you to have to hear it.”

Haley felt a thread of panic weaving its way up from her gut. She wasn’t sure why. When all was said and done, now that people had stopped barking at her, she didn’t really given any credence to all the talk about ‘safe places.’ After all, home was the least perilous locale in Aaron’s world. The others just didn’t understand. But watching the bruised look in his eyes worsen; watching him close down…frightened her. A whisper crawled upwards on the thread of fear. _Damage. He’s accumulating damage. Inside. Where you can’t see it. Where it’ll grow and grow and then you know how it’ll turn out. He’ll be taken away from you…Forever…_

Swallowing her pride, along with the lump in her throat, Haley spoke soft words into her man’s ear. “Okay. But is there someone you _can_ tell? Someone you can call maybe?”

When the phone rang, both Hotchners jumped, but Haley felt as though she’d been given yet another timely gift.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Morgan?”

“Hey, man.”

Hotch’s profiler’s sensibilities clicked into full gear. Something didn’t sound right in his second-in-command’s voice. “What’s going on?”

A few beats of silence, then… “We’re on a case.”

“I know. Garcia sent me some of the details.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know that.”

Haley watched her husband lean into the call as though willing himself through the connection. His voice went low, projecting confidence and commitment. “This is a rough one to have as your first time on point, Morgan. Remember it’s not just you out there. Every member of that team is part of you. With them at your command, you can do almost anything. You’re more than you ever thought you could be.”

He could hear Derek take a deep breath.

“Morgan?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” Whatever had tripped Hotch’s alarms was diminishing. The agent sounded sturdier…better. He inhaled again, slowly. “Thanks, Hotch. I just wanted to hear you. That’s all. Sorry if I interrupted anything.”

“You didn’t.” Hotch lowered his voice even more. “You can do this, Morgan. Call me whenever you want. Any time.”

“Gotcha. So…how’re you feeling? Okay?”

“I’m fine. Just wish I was there to help.”

“You just did, man. Like no one else could.”

Morgan’s long sigh was a release of tension. Hotch was a touchstone. He’d needed to hear the confidence and trust in his leader’s voice.

“Use your team, Morgan. Use Rossi’s experience…J.J.’s diplomacy…Reid’s brain…Prentiss’ courage…Garcia’s skill…They’re your superpowers.” Hotch’s voice held a note of longing. “With them, you can do anything.”

Miles distant, Derek felt again the surge of pride and emotion that he’d experienced that first morning he’d been in command, standing on the catwalk, surveying his domain. He closed his eyes and found, deep down, a grain of optimism in spite of the inherent horrors of this case.

“You can do this, Morgan.”

“Yeah. You’re right, Hotch. I can. Thanks, man.”

At last the Unit Chief heard the strength he knew was there all along.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley listened in on the conversation, her previous fear sinking beneath stirrings of confusion touched with jealousy.

_He didn’t let anything out. But just talking to someone from the BAU makes him feel better. And yet, talking to me…doesn’t._

When Hotch hung up, he exhaled in a shudder before slanting his eyes toward his wife. “Sorry. He just needed to hear my voice.”

“And you needed to know that he did.” Haley leaned her head against Hotch’s shoulder. “And now part of you is out there…with them…probably always was…is…”

“Sorry.” Hotch turned his head, dropping a light kiss on her hair; a movement that brought the African violet partially into his line of sight, and an opportunity to change the subject. “You got a new plant.”

“Hmmm?” She realized what he must be referencing. “Oh, no. That psychologist brought it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he thinks I’m such a bad wife that I need to practice taking care of a plant before I can graduate to a full-grown husband.”

“Haley.” Hotch’s look was reprimanding.

“Okay, okay.” She pulled him close again. “But I will take good care of it. And you. Which is why I need to make sure you get to a doctor. So, who do I call to check up on agents whose teammates shoot them?” She could feel the change in him. As though his muscles altered on a molecular level. Hardened. Contracting away from her.

“Haley, that’s not fair. You want me to talk to you about things that go wrong at work, but then you hold them against my team.” His voice was thick with tension. “I’m going to tell you what I told Morgan. Everything that goes wrong _or_ right in the field is my responsibility. Please don’t snipe at my colleagues for my lack of judgment.”

It had been such a nice evening so far, except for the intrusive call from Morgan. Haley hurried to smooth things over. She nuzzled into Hotch’s neck until she felt his muscles loosen. _Besides, the important thing is to get him to see someone and have those stitches out. And to ask about a little blood test on the side, if possible._

“You’re right, Sweetheart. Forgive me? Now, who do we call to make an appointment?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was getting ready for bed when the second call from the team came in. This time caller ID identified Rossi.

“Dave? How’s it going?” There was an edge in Hotch’s voice that warned the older man this case had been on their Unit Chief’s mind ever since Garcia had clued him in that children were involved.

“It’s over, Aaron. We got him. We’ll be on our way back tomorrow.”

“Good. Everyone okay?”

“We’re fine. It’s over,” he repeated…which made Hotch’s hyper-alert ears prick forward.

“What aren’t you telling me, Dave?”

Silence.

“Rossi, I already know the victims were children. It doesn’t get any worse than that.”

Silence.

“Dave!”

There was weariness and defeat in Rossi’s words. “It’s worse when the unsub’s a kid, too.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

That night Hotch cried in his dreams.


	126. Vulture

Haley spent the night watching her husband toss and turn.

She blamed it on the lingering discomfort of his wound…which, no matter how Hotch worded it, she attributed to the BAU in general, and Morgan in particular. She managed to soothe him without waking him, stroking his hair and letting her palm warm the center of his chest. Eventually, he subsided into restless shuddering, marked by occasional wordless whispers.

It was unsettling.

She was glad she’d pushed him to make a doctor’s appointment, although she suspected the Bureau’s medical personnel were only interested in verifying how soon they could shove their injured agents back into the field. Haley consoled herself with the hope that she’d be able to talk her way into a pregnancy test. She had a feeling based on what she considered omens that good news wasn’t far off.

_And if anything will make Aaron feel better and see the light at the end of that BAU tunnel, it’ll be fatherhood._

She finally fell asleep with one hand still on his chest.

While his dreams were wreathed in sorrow, hers were visited once again by the small, dark-haired boy she longed to cradle.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch couldn’t hide his low spirits the next day.

His appetite was off. He looked disconsolate, unable to focus, wandering from his den to their small yard to the living room and back. At last his restless night caught up with him. He drifted off on the sofa, sitting, head fallen back against the headrest.

When the doorbell rang, Haley hastened to answer it before the noise woke him. She wasn’t too surprised to find Rossi on the mat. Nonetheless, her expression was one of resigned exasperation. After a moment’s mutual eye contact, she swept her arm in a low arc, a gesture granting grudging permission to enter.

“He’s in the living room.”

“Thanks, Haley. Just want to check on him.”

Rossi edged past her, keenly aware he was headed deeper into her domain. Under his breath he muttered to himself. “Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Hotchner.” He dismissed the lady of the house from his mind when Hotch came into view. In quiet repose, the Unit Chief looked worn; not like someone who’d reaped the benefits of several days’ rest. Rossi went to stand behind the couch on which his friend slumbered.

Hotch startled when he felt hands lower onto his shoulders. They were too large and controlling to be Haley’s. When they gave him an affectionate squeeze, though, he knew.

“Dave?”

“The case is all wrapped up. Thought I’d swing by and see how you’re doing.”

“How’s Morgan?”

“Fine. He did a good job. You’d be proud of him.” Hands slid a little farther down Hotch’s shoulders. “Now, how are _you_ doing?”

“Did everyone on the team come through it okay?”

A few beats of silence fell. “Aaron, we’re fine. Everyone on the team is fine. Morgan’s fine. The case is over. How. Are. _You_?” Hotch tried to straighten from his relaxed posture. Rossi’s hands arrested the effort, pressing the younger man’s shoulders into the back of the couch. “Aaron…”

“I’m fine, too.”

“Well, you look like hell. Not what I’d expect of a man who should be spending his time eating home-cooked meals and sleeping in.”

Hotch’s guileless eyes gazed upward, finding Rossi’s. “I didn’t sleep so well last night. No big deal.”

But Rossi was searching Aaron’s face, reading all that time and experience and friendship could see written there. “Dreams?” No answer. Dave tried a different angle. “Was talking to Razz helpful?”

Hotch closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, he’d come to the decision to open up to his best friend. “He told me I don’t have any safety valves; that things keep building up. He didn’t hold out a lot of hope.”

Rossi nodded, massaging the shoulders beneath his grip. “Did he talk to you about meditation? About learning how to do that?”

Hotch frowned. “No.”

“Hmmmm.” Rossi considered the implication. Razz usually followed through on things. _He must have had a reason to change his mind._ He studied Hotch through narrowed eyes. “So why aren’t you sleeping?” The younger man glanced away, shrugging as best he could when he was being held in place.

“ _Is_ it bad dreams?” Rossi felt a tremor pass through his friend and knew he’d hit the mark. He sighed, gave Hotch’s shoulders one last squeeze before releasing him. He walked around to take a seat beside his boss. As he did, Hotch leaned forward, bracing elbows on knees, effectively hiding his face. Rossi wasn’t having any of that. He wasn’t delicate about taking Hotch’s chin and forcing a face-to-face confrontation.

“If Razz said something to upset you, I’m sorry I brought him in. But it’s far more likely he threw something at you that he thought would help. And he did so with a little shock value thrown in.” One side of Rossi’s mouth quirked upward in tribute to his left-of-center therapist-friend. “That’s a tactic I’ve seen him use in the past.”

Grave, shadowed eyes held Dave’s in a steady gaze. The older man didn’t break away, but decided to alter his tactics. “Can you tell me your dream, Aaron? Do you remember it?” He noticed something pass over Hotch’s features. It might have been reluctance. It might have been fear. Rossi’s voice lowered, sharing something private. “When I was a kid and had nightmares, my mother used to tell me two things that she considered useful ammunition.” He moved closer, bumping shoulders with Hotch, giving the impression that he was about to reveal something top-secret as well as intimate.

“She said that if the dream wakes you up, you should turn 180 degrees away from it. Meaning, if you’re sleeping on your right side, turn onto your left. If you’re on your back, turn onto your stomach. That way, the dream will get lost. Won’t be able to find you for a repeat performance. Now…that’ll help you get through the night. But, if you don’t want the dream to come back the next night, or the next, you have to talk about it.” Rossi leaned into Hotch, using physical contact to underline his words. “And I’ll tell you something, Aaron…it works. Absolutely one hundred percent guaranteed. It works.”

Hotch wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take this seriously, so he stayed still and quiet, eyes fastened on this man who was imparting what sounded like fallout from a fairytale, or advice for a four-year-old.

“So lay your demons, Aaron. Talk to me. Tell me your dream so it won't come back.” Rossi’s demeanor lost any tinge of the fanciful. There was a reflective sadness in his own gaze that echoed Hotch’s and drew him in. The younger man didn’t know it, but it was the look a loving father gives his son, whether he’s four or forty.

Hotch swallowed hard. Hard enough to be audible, but Rossi ignored the sign of stress in favor of maintaining steady eye contact. “I don’t remember a lot. I don’t know how it happened or how I got into it.”

“Doesn’t need to make sense. Dreams usually don’t. Just get it out.”

Hotch broke away, focusing his eyes on the carpet between his bare and suddenly chilly feet. “All I remember is holding a…a baby. And there was a lot of blood.”

Rossi drew on his own singular experience. “When babies are born, Aaron, there _is_ blood. I remember…” He bit down on what he’d been about to say. Somehow, his personal tragedy didn’t belong here. Not just now. “The thing is…the birth of a child is a very _human_ thing. Messy. Scary. Miraculous. Blood is part of it. You and Haley are trying to become parents. Maybe that’s all it is.”

“No. No, you don’t understand, Dave.”

Rossi placed a hand on Hotch’s back, detecting the jut of vertebrae beneath his palm. “Explain, then. Tell me.”

Another swallow so deep Rossi could feel the momentary expansion in the Unit Chief’s back.

“ _I_ was the one covered in blood. The baby was in my hands. It was so small. And…and I was trying to keep it away from…from all the blood…the mess...” Hotch paused, taking a deep breath, but determined to forge on. “I was soaked. Through my vest. Through my shirt. Somehow through my skin. It was like it was a victim’s blood…but mine, too. There was no way I could hold this child without drenching it.”

He turned tortured eyes on the older man. “Just by holding it…just by having it near…I was condemning it…to something so…so _violent_ …so unforgivable…”

The two men stared deep into each other for several beats. Then Rossi pushed Hotch’s head down, cradling it against his chest. It looked like a comforting maneuver. But Dave knew better.

He didn’t want to see into the darkness any more. He needed a break. Because no matter how he tried in his amateur way to interpret it, Hotch’s dream boded ill.

_Either he’s still haunted by the time that girl…Angie?... soaked him through…or he’s seeing his blood…his heritage…as something so insidious and misbegotten that any child touched by it…_

_…is doomed…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley didn’t _quite_ eavesdrop.

She didn’t make any special effort to overhear Rossi’s and Aaron’s discussion. But she kept tabs on them nonetheless. They sat close. They engaged each other in a way that made threads of jealousy weave through her. At last, she couldn’t stand it. She had to interrupt.

Dave had hugged her husband, pulling Aaron’s head against his chest. It was a gesture that spoke of care and closeness. It bothered Haley. Therefore, it needed to stop.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Dave?” Haley’s voice cut through the emotion and introspection surrounding the two men. “I don’t mean to intrude, but Aaron’s not on duty. I’m still hoping he can spend most of his leave _recovering_ from his job…not getting pulled back into it just yet.”

It was said in the most dulcet of tones, but Rossi could hear the subtext as though it were shouted through a bullhorn. _Time’s up! Get out! Leave us alone!_

“Just a moment more, Haley. Then I’ll leave you two in peace.” Rossi’s smile was perfunctory, but it accomplished its task. Hotch’s wife stretched her own lips in a socially acceptable manner and retreated, feeling she’d made her point.

Bad dreams aside, Rossi wondered more and more about the Hotchners’ marital landscape. He knew it wasn’t his business, but he could see the look in Aaron’s eyes that said he didn’t appreciate his wife’s behavior either. Dave let the younger man out of his grasp, rubbing a comforting hand across his back.

“I meant everything I said about handling dreams, Aaron. I hope telling me about this one will keep it away. I think you’ll be fine. But…”

Hotch heard the indecision in his best friend’s voice and turned inquisitive eyes on him. “But what?”

Rossi’s glance in the direction in which Haley had disappeared was eloquent. Hotch didn’t need explanation or further discussion to know he was being asked about the relationship he shared with the only woman he’d ever truly loved. He spared Rossi having to elaborate.

“Dave, when I was a kid…in high school…after I met Haley for the first time…I went away to boarding school.” He shot a brief look at Rossi; saw undivided attention, but no judgment. Hotch took a breath and a chance, revealing a little of the inner portrait of himself that he kept curtained from the world.

“When I got back, Haley didn’t even know I’d been gone.” Rossi thought he detected a tearful thickening in Hotch’s voice as he continued. “ I wasn’t that important to her. She could replace me so easily. But it doesn’t work both ways. I can’t replace her. I’d never find anyone else who’d...” Hotch paused. Breathed. Restated. “I’d never find anyone else.”

But Rossi heard the unspoken echo and felt a pang of sorrow on his friend’s behalf.

_He was going to say ‘I’d never find anyone else who’d want me.’ I’m sure of it._

Dave would have said more, but he saw Haley peek around the corner, reinforcing her indirect request that he leave. Standing, he gave Hotch a fatherly, and very Italian, kiss on the forehead.

“Get some rest, Aaron. The dream won’t come back. You told it to me, and now it’s mine. So I’m taking it away with me. As for the rest…” Rossi looked toward where Haley had been. “You won’t ever have to find someone else. Don’t sell yourself short. Haley loves you. More than you know. She’ll never leave you.”

But as he left, ushered out by Hotch’s wife, thrice-divorced Dave felt like a liar.


	127. Of Blinds and Decoys

Although Hotch claimed he was fully capable of driving himself to his doctor’s appointment later that week, Haley insisted on accompanying him.

He was touched. It meant contact with the internal workings of the Bureau, something he knew she disliked. He took her determination to stay by his side as a sign of protective, affectionate care and support. When his name was called by the nurse who would escort him to his examination, he didn’t question that Haley chose to remain in the waiting room.

She had been tense while they waited. Her fingers alternately lacing and unlacing through his. Her eyes darted, taking in the receptionist and the two other patients present, resigned in their boredom. Both looked like agents injured in the field. One sported a cast on his leg. The other’s head was bandaged. Neither seemed interested in exchanging tales of how they’d acquired their war wounds. Their very indifference set Haley’s stomach to churning.

_They’re so…so **accepting** …as if it’s their fate to be fodder. That’s how Aaron will be if he stays in the field much longer._

But as preoccupied as she was, once Hotch was led away, Haley sprang into action. She approached the receptionist’s area and felt a surge of optimism: the woman’s desk was littered with photos chronicling a toddler’s life. When she sensed someone standing before her, the receptionist glanced up and smiled at the way this stranger was staring at the baby pictures, a look of pure enchantment on her face.

“Yours?” Haley nodded toward the tiny, framed tributes.

“Yes. Two years old last week.” The woman beamed with motherly pride. “Do you have children?”

It was the opening for which Haley had hoped. She bit her lip, eyes lowering in tremulous modesty. She whispered her reply like a schoolgirl sharing her deepest, most shameful secret with her dearest friend. “W-we’re trying…so, _so_ hard…but…” Moisture filled her eyes. She wiped at them with a delicate gesture. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself, raising her chin, presenting a picture of feminine bravery in the face of disappointment.

“My husband…he gets hurt so often. It makes it difficult to…well…you know.” Haley lowered her lids for a moment.

“Was that your husband? The tall, dark one who just went in?” The receptionist didn’t bother to disguise her admiration. Ordinarily, it would have earned her a sharp, yet silky verbal barb, but Haley set aside territorial issues in favor of a greater goal.

“It was. He…he was shot…in the line of duty.” Her voice quivered ever so slightly.

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Will he be alright?”

“I don’t know. I…I hope so. But…it’s hard. He’s been so down lately. I just wish I could…” Haley almost sobbed to a stop, a performance that elicited furrowed brows and sympathetic concern from the receptionist.

“You poor thing! What were you going to say? You wish you could…what?” Her own husband had nothing to do with the FBI, but seeing patients every day who were battered and bruised in the name of serving their country had an effect on her. If she could dispense kindness to worried friends and relatives, it relieved some of the sadness attendant on her job.

“Oh…well…” Haley gave a gentle, ladylike sniffle. “Before he gets even more depressed, I wish I could tell him I’m carrying his baby, but…” Stifling another soft sob, she dug through her purse, extracting a tissue and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m s-sorry. I don’t usually cry like this…”

The receptionist’s face lit with the hope of alleviating some of this young wife’s sorrow. “But…but that could be a good sign! A wonderful sign! Some women are very sensitive to hormonal changes. They can make you overly emotional. Maybe this means you’re pregnant!”

“You…you think…maybe?” Haley gulped back incipient tears.

“It’s a possibility. Has your husband been able to…uh…” She gave a meaningful look.

“Yes…” Haley brightened. “Yes! Oh, my gosh! I wonder…” Her eyes went wide.

“If I were you, I’d go home and take one of those tests…you know?”

“But…” Haley placed a hand on her abdomen. “…you have to wait two weeks for those to work.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing a tear. “Isn’t there some way to know sooner? My…my husband would be so happy. It would make all the difference in the world.” A second tear joined the first. “It’s so hard to watch him hurt and miserable…”

The receptionist’s heart went out to what she saw as a struggling, young couple. “Wait a minute.” She bent over her phone, punching numbers and talking in hushed tones that Haley couldn’t quite catch. When she replaced the receiver in its cradle, she looked up with a beaming smile. “If you want, we can take a blood sample. I don’t know how long the turn-around time is to get results, but it would be faster and more accurate than a home test. I’ve got your insurance information from your husband’s card, so… Would you like to do that?”

Haley worked to keep her inner feelings hidden. It was all she could do to keep her smile hopeful and tentative when it yearned to signal the smug satisfaction that welled up within as she congratulated herself. So many things could have gone awry, but people and circumstances had fallen in line behind her. As she followed the white-coated technician who appeared, willing to take her blood, Haley found she was gratified, but not really surprised.

After all, this was the way the world _should_ be; a clockwork progression designed to reward the deserving. _And that’s how it will **always** be, once I get Aaron away from his precious BAU._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch lay on the cold, unforgiving examination table and submitted to being prodded and palpated.

“Hmmmm…” A frown appeared on the doctor’s brow.

“What?” The Unit Chief craned his neck up and forward, trying to see the area being inspected.

“It’s a little irritated. You’re supposed to be taking it easy, Mr. Hotchner.”

Hotch let his head fall back. “I am.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Something icy swabbed Hotch’s side. Peripherally, he could see the attendant physician’s head bend close. The sound of small, metallic snips and brief tugging sensations told him his stitches were being removed. It didn’t exactly hurt, but it felt odd and unpleasant to have threads yanked through his flesh.

“There. All done.” With a sigh, the doctor tidied away his tools, discarded the gloves he’d worn, and picked up the chart that had preceded this patient’s arrival. Taking a seat, he gave Hotch a quick glance before delving into the official records. “You can put your shirt back on, Mr. Hotchner.”

Hotch dressed, listening to pages being turned. He wondered what claimed the doctor’s attention when he paused at certain points or flipped backwards to reread sections. His curiosity peaked when the man stood, pulled out his stethoscope, tucked the disc end inside Hotch’s shirt and, keeping him sandwiched in a firm hold with a hand on his upper back, began asking him questions in a deceptively offhand manner.

“How’ve you been sleeping?”

“Fine.”

“You know you’ll have to talk to a Bureau psych since your injury was incurred in the field, right?”

“I know. Not a problem.”

The physician grunted in a most uninformative manner. He’d been listening to the agent’s heart speed up in response to his inquiries. Based on what he heard, the man wasn’t particularly concerned with the emotional evaluation he’d need to undergo before returning to duty, but the question about sleep had tripped him into an increased rhythm. The doctor released Hotch from his hold, stepping back and looping the stethoscope around his neck. He turned back to the patient’s chart.

The man was a long-time profiler, which brought a wry tilt to the doctor’s lips. _He’s more than a match for the psych eval. He’ll only let his guard down if he chooses to, but if he wants, he knows how to hide any trauma._ He sighed, glancing up at the wary, dark eyes tracking him as he perused the medical records. _But his body gave him away about the sleep issue. And there’s a note that his wife contacted the Bureau and sounded a little hysterical._ He closed the file and studied his patient with open interest.

“How are things going at home?”

“Fine. Good. Everything’s good.”

“I see.” Tapping the edge of the folder containing the records against a countertop, the doctor decided to lay his cards on the table. “Mr. Hotchner, you don’t have anything to worry about physically. You’ll heal just fine. But…” He met the agent’s direct gaze and held it. “…I don’t believe for a minute that you’re sleeping well. Your wound shows signs of strain and I’m guessing it’s because you’re tossing the blankets around all night. And your wife is apparently concerned about you, too.” The doctor folded his arms, regarding the patient with narrowed eyes. “I’m well aware that you’re an expert in knowing how to act and what to say, but I’m all ears if you want to talk anything out.”

A few beats of silence told him that Mr. Hotchner wasn’t in a sharing mood. He sighed before playing his trump card. “Look, you can hang tough and soldier your way through whatever trauma’s eating at you. I’m not questioning your strength or determination, Agent. But maybe you should consider your _wife’s_ state of mind.” He saw Hotch’s brows flick upwards, but it was only a momentary lapse. This man was adept at controlling his expressions.

“Doctor, I appreciate your concern, but…”

“But you’ve got everything under control. Yeah. I know. And of course that explains Mrs. Hotchner’s unorthodox request to keep you home as long as possible.” The skepticism in the physician’s expression and tone annoyed Hotch.

“I don’t consider it ‘unorthodox’ for a woman to react…and maybe even _over_ react…when her husband gets shot, do you?”

“Mmmmm…maybe not.” The doctor nodded. He’d wanted to provoke the patient; wanted to see if his emotions were frayed or unstable. But his response had been rational. His instinct to defend his spouse was reassuringly normal, too. “Well, as I said, you’ll heal. I’ll clear you to return to duty a week from today, _if_ you go easy and let that wound rest.”

Some of the wariness left Hotch’s eyes, although he wasn’t quite up to offering a smile. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll be careful.”

He left the examination room and headed toward the lobby, wondering how Haley was doing. She’d been almost vibrating with tension, like a piano wire, when he’d left her. He thought maybe it would help if they went somewhere. He was heartily sick of being housebound and wondered if part of his wife’s stress was due to her dancing unflagging attendance on him.

But when Hotch reached the waiting room, an entirely different Haley greeted him. This one was radiating happiness rather than anxiety.

“Sweetheart!” She bounded from her seat, stretching upward to kiss him. Placing a proprietary hand on his stomach, she glanced at his side. “Are you alright? Did they take the stitches out?”

Before Hotch could answer, she gave him an enthusiastic hug, hustling him toward the door. “Let’s get out of here and you can tell me all about it.”

He didn’t notice the receptionist’s little farewell wave as they left. Nor Haley’s answering, conspiratorial wink.


	128. Going...Going...Gosling!

Haley’s ebullient mood lasted through the weekend.

But then Hotch noticed she became as restive and anxious as when they’d been biding time in the doctor’s waiting room. Whenever he questioned her, wanting to know what was wrong, if he’d done anything to upset her, she’d assure him he hadn’t. The hand she’d lay against his cheek or the kiss she’d press to his forehead did more to convince him than her words. Something was lurking around her corners, but she wasn’t willing to share it just yet.

Hotch gave her time and space. And Haley seemed to return the favor. When her husband had mentioned the doctor’s injunction to avoid strenuous activity and his observation that Hotch’s injury showed signs of overuse, she’d retreated into unhappy silence for a few hours. But she’d come to terms with having to postpone procreative activities, letting her husband know she didn’t blame him by the way she treated him with a sad tenderness.

Hotch had the feeling Haley was journeying an internal landscape from which he was excluded. It made him nervous that she was so capable of dealing with whatever issues plagued her on her own. Still, he couldn’t complain about being neglected. Haley could spend hours in the evenings holding him and petting him. And yet, Hotch felt left out.

He counted the days until his return to work.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Razz.”

“Hey, Dave. How’re you doing? And how’s Aaron?”

Rossi took a deep breath. “Well, that’s part of why I called. First…,” he hastened to add, in case he sounded ungrateful. “…I wanted to thank you again for coming here and helping us out. I think you did the entire team some good, and that’s a lot more than I expected or had any right to ask. So, again…thanks.”

The therapist sensed hesitation in the ensuing pause. “You’re welcome. Now what’s the _real_ reason you called?” He could imagine the sheepish grin sliding into place on Rossi’s face. There was no one who appreciated having his motives seen through more than a profiler. “Spill it, fed.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez.” Rossi’s voice adopted a graver tone. “You were going to teach Aaron some meditation techniques last I checked. What happened?”

“Change of plans.”

“I know. Why?” Rossi heard a gusty sigh cross the connection and waited for what he knew would be a straight answer.

“I couldn’t see your Aaron mastering such a quiet art. There would be too many risks. In my professional opinion. Someone else might see him differently, but I…”

“Razz! I’m not calling to argue about it. I just want to know why.”

After a few breaths, the therapist continued. “Sorry. I’m a little on the defensive right now. The cop I talked to this morning got a little riled. Thought I’d have to call in reinforcements to cuff the guy at one point.” His voice shifted to a steadier, more professional cadence. “Dave, I see the people who benefit most from meditation as being like placid lakes on the inside. They’re deep. There are currents. But the overall feel is already more of unruffled calm than anything else. But Aaron…Aaron is a tempest inside. He’s all about fighting the storm and trying not to capsize. I don’t see meditation as a good thing for him anymore.”

Rossi was genuinely puzzled. “Look, I don’t pretend to know about this hippy stuff you’ve picked up along the way, Razz, but isn’t the whole point to take a place of turmoil and transform it into a peaceful one? To find the eye of the storm? If Hotch worked at it, isn’t it possible it’d help him?”

“Anything’s possible, but…here’s the thing, Dave: there are potential side effects. And with a guy like Aaron, I can pretty much guarantee that they’d come roaring to life.”

“Eh?” Rossi was lost. Side effects were nasty little things connected to products of the pharmaceutical industry, or overindulgence in fine scotch…or the aftermath of matrimony.

“ _Mental_ fallout, my friend. It’s a matter of weighing the pros and cons. What happens with almost reliable predictability when a novice begins to learn meditation is the surfacing of repressed memories. At least, it happens with those who have memories worth repressing…”

Silence fell on both sides.

Rossi was running through the implications. Having only the suspicion that Hotch was an abuse survivor, he didn’t know how severe the situation might have been. Razz would never betray Aaron’s trust by discussing his childhood. The statement he’d just made was a chilling, yet discreet, judgment call. But for his best friend’s sake, Rossi had to pursue the matter just a little further.

“So…no eye of the storm? No way Hotch could manage the memories once he’d been warned they might surface?” He could almost hear Razz shaking his head in regretful abnegation.

“If he were at a place in his life where fewer stresses were targeting him, it might be worth the risk. But…no, Dave. I’m sorry. That young man’s plate is full. If we dump another serving onto it, the whole thing might tip over and we’d have a hell of a mess then.”

“Damn, Razz.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Well…” Rossi gave a sigh redolent with defeat. “Thanks for trying. I’ll do my best to look after him.”

“You can always call me, Dave. You know that.”

“Again…thanks.” After a moment, he changed gears. “Guess I better get back to work.”

“Ah, yes. Off to massage the decaying federal carcass of the superstructure that writes your checks.”

“Troublemaker.”

“Fraud. _And_ your dog. What _real_ dog eats cheese Danish and pizza?” A snort of derision accompanied the statement. And then a pause. “Give Mudge a hug for me, okay?”

Rossi’s chuckle lingered in the therapist’s ears as he hung up.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley set up a special ringtone for the Bureau’s medical facility.

When the melodic strains of Brahms’ Lullaby came from her purse, she pounced on it, ferocious with anticipation and dread.

Hotch had gone out for a walk. She was glad to receive the call alone.

“Hello?”

“Haley Hotchner, please.”

“This is Haley.” She was finding it hard to breathe in anything but shallow sips. Her words were strained, sounding as though she’d been interrupted in the midst of an aerobic workout.

The impersonal voice continued, making Haley want to scream at it  _‘Yes or no! Yes or no!!??.’_ “Mrs. Hotchner, we have the results back from your blood analysis.”

“And…?”

“You’re pregnant.” At last something like a smile entered the voice. “I hope that’s good news.”

Haley couldn’t speak. She hoped the squeaky, animal noise she made would be construed as gratitude.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Hotch returned from his walk, an entirely new version of Haley lay in wait.

He’d barely crossed the threshold when someone barreled into him, squeezing and pummeling and lavishing his whole head with kisses. For a moment he thought a very amorous intruder was trying to crush him flat against the wall to which he’d been pushed. When the assault stopped, Hotch panted, surprised eyes locked on his wife with wary confusion. Before he could catch his breath, she held his face between her palms and kissed him as gently as a butterfly.

“Go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Then she darted away, wafting giggles behind her. Baffled, bemused Hotch made his way upstairs to splash water on his face and recover his wits.

It happened in the bathroom. One of the happiest moments of his life.

Hotch had gone blind to Haley’s little fertility calendar. It registered on the fringes of his vision as a blur of bright, highlighted color. He would have noticed its absence, but only if he’d thought to look for it. However, what sat on the bathroom counter in its place could not be ignored.

Hotch switched on the light and frowned. Another calendar. Big. Very big. But the strange part was that it was for next year. He moved closer, peering sidelong at this oddity. It was turned to next spring. He stared down at it. Something was written in the space provided for notes and reminders.

In shiny, bright, multi-colored highlighter were the words: **_Baby Hotchner arrives…Aaron, you’re a Daddy!_**

 

xxxxxxx

 

After half an hour, Haley went up to retrieve Hotch and help him downstairs.

Otherwise, the man might have spent the entire night and a good portion of the foreseeable future in imitation of a frozen…but very, very happy…statue.


	129. All the Eggs...One Basket

The Hotchners spent most of the evening staring at each other, shaking their heads as sappy grins spread wide…wider…widest.

The lovely meal Haley had prepared was eaten without being tasted. They sought their bed early, but went sleepless, lying side by side, holding hands, whispering in shell-shocked voices.

“We did it.”

“Oh, my God…”

“We did it.”

“Now what?”

“We did it.”

“We did it.”

“My God, we did it.”

Then they’d dissolve into gales of laughter, leaving them gasping, only to repeat the cycle. Hotch’s stomach muscles ached the next morning from unaccustomed merriment.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The bullpen simmered in subdued anticipation of the return of their pack leader.

It was low-key, but pervasive. They wanted to watch the lean, suited body of the Unit Chief stalk along the catwalk, pause to survey his domain, and then settle into his den of authority, windows shielded by blinds that were permanently at half-mast, making it clear to teammates that he was always available to them.

They’d expected Hotch to be first in after a two-week leave, but when he wasn’t they decided they were glad they hadn’t missed The Arrival. All eyes turned every time the BAU doors swung open. From their respective offices, Rossi and J.J. kept tabs on the bullpen crew, knowing their reactions would signal Hotch’s entrance.

Garcia found an unprecedented number of reasons to cruise through. Reid managed to work, but not with his usual focused intensity. Morgan was the most involved in the papers cluttering his desk. He was putting the finishing touches on his stint as leader and was anxious that everything be perfect in tribute to Hotch’s return. Prentiss didn’t bother trying to look busy. She leaned back, feet on her desktop, coffee cup clasped comfortably over her stomach, and kept a steady watch.

“He’s here!” Prentiss hissed the alert. Pulling her booted feet off her desk, she leaned forward, aiming her attention at the figure coming through the doors, briefcase in hand.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The best part for Hotch was when he was alone with his thoughts.

That was when, unbuoyed by Haley’s effervescent elation, he could explore what this new knowledge of imminent fatherhood really felt like. There was an unfortunate side effect, though. He’d lose track of the passage of time.

It happened while he was shaving after the mostly-sleepless, but giddily joyful night. It happened when he paused at stoplights on the way to work; blaring horns jogging him from his reverie. It happened when he pulled into his parking space; lost until another car’s headlights jolted him back. It happened when he was in the elevator.

The doors opened with a pneumatic _shush_ too soft to break through Hotch’s preoccupation.

“Hey! Buddy! Out or in?” The crisp voice sounded impatient, but not unfriendly.

“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” Hotch stepped out onto his floor. _Get a grip, Hotchner!_ He’d never had to deal with sleep deprivation coupled with happiness of this magnitude. It was overwhelming. The effect it was having on him was an education. _I can’t leave personal issues at the door as well as I thought I could._

He gave himself a brusque command to stay focused, gripped his briefcase tighter, and adopted his usual straight posture and confident stride. Unfortunately, the walk to the BAU was rather long, and the neutral, muted corridors proved hypnotic to a tired man engrossed in looming parenthood.

By the time Hotch reached the bullpen, his eyes had gone distant again.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“He’s here!”

Heads raised. Eyes tracked. J.J. and Rossi looked out their windows, alerted by movement in the bullpen.

Hotch wafted along the catwalk to his office, bumping the doorjamb with his briefcase. No one was sure, but it looked as though he might have mumbled an absent-minded apology to it as he continued past to his desk.

Brows furrowed. Questioning glances were exchanged. J.J. and Rossi came to their open doors, casting wary glances toward the Unit Chief’s office. Whispers erupted.

“Maybe he’s still on the pain killers?”

“There’s something weird about his tie.”

“Did he have his psych eval yet?”

When no definitive answers were forthcoming, all eyes turned to Rossi. He could almost see the communal thought-bubble rise… _You’re his best friend. Ask him! What’s going on?!?_ Dave had no idea. But communal thought-bubbles demanded action, so he went to investigate. Pausing at Hotch’s door, he surveyed the scene.

Hotch’s eyes caught his attention first. Dark smudges below them indicated lack of sleep. But the gaze that slowly turned his way was anything but weary. Aaron looked…enchanted. _Under a spell_ came to Rossi’s mind and he resisted the ingrained-from-childhood impulse to cross himself. A wide, slow grin spread across the younger man’s face.

“Hi, Dave.”

“A-a-r-o-n…?...Good morning.” Rossi squinted, peering at their leader. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Hotch kept telling himself to stop smiling, but he had no control over it. He decided the next best thing would be to say as little as possible. Haley had said she wanted her parents and sister to be the first to know, but she wanted to wait until she’d seen her own doctor and was sure that everything was okay. She’d warned him he might have to keep their secret until the first trimester had passed.

Hotch was so slap-happy he would have agreed to almost anything: walking on his hands for three months…giving up ice cream…going tieless… Discretion in deference to the one who’d be carrying the child and enduring the attendant physical indignities seemed like a very small, very reasonable request.

But looking into the quizzical, concerned eyes of his best friend made Hotch want to confide everything. The discomfort of being caught between desire and honor managed to pull him out of his haze, depositing him firmly in the here and now.

Rossi saw something had changed. He read it in Hotch’s dark eyes going wide with conflict. “You sure you’re okay?”

Hotch pulled himself straighter in his seat. “Yeah. I mean, yes. I’m fine.”

“Well, okay then.” But Rossi didn’t sound convinced. He moved closer; right up to Aaron’s side. “Just hold still a minute and let me see what’s going on here.”

To Hotch’s chagrin, the older man leaned in, gentle fingers pulling at his collar. “Aaron, you need to re-button your shirt. You’re off one. It’s all crooked.” The tugging eased. “And re-do your tie. It’s…well, just re-do it.”

“Oh…Jeez...” Realizing his perfect façade, his protective veneer was awry, Hotch turned away, embarrassed, righting things as quickly as possible. When he turned back, Rossi caught his face, a palm cupping each cheek.

“What’s going on with you, Aaron?”

Haley might have been able to pull it off. But Hotch? No. Not Hotch. Never Hotch. His acting skills tried to intervene, but they plodded to a shaky stop and then keeled over. Inert. Useless. Still, he kept to his promise and said nothing. But the grin. The grin could not be controlled or suppressed or hidden or explained. All it could do was light up his face like a beacon.

A beacon that could lead a seasoned profiler’s expertise to wonder…

Rossi studied the man before him. A slow, sly grin of his own grew wide. Considering the events of the past months, and recalling his own unbridled, unstoppable elation when his first wife had told him to stock up on celebratory cigars…and the accompanying injunction for a month or two of secrecy…

Much to the amusement and _be_ musement of the bullpen, Rossi yanked their Unit Chief off his feet, mauling him and smacking him with a resoundingly loud kiss.

“Atta boy, Aaron! That’s!…my!…good!…boy!…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch said nothing about impending fatherhood until Haley gave him the go-ahead.

Rossi didn’t tell. But the entire team had the situation figured out by the end of Hotch’s first day back. He couldn’t stop smiling. He endured endless hugs and slaps and buffeting.

It was an open secret in the BAU. But no one confronted Hotch, and he never said a word. ‘Benign neglect’ was the order of the day.

For the duration, Aaron became obsessed with his phone. He called Haley a dozen times a day from either the office or the field.

The custom became for the team to choose seats clustered toward the front of the jet’s cabin, leaving the rear as a place where Hotch could have the illusion of privacy for his numerous calls. So, when the phone slid from his nerveless fingers during a flight back from a case, the entire team cringed in sympathy, dreading bad news. It was Rossi, heart prepared to shatter, who went back and knelt by his best friend, speaking in low, gentle tones.

“Aaron…what is it? What happened?...Oh, Aaron…” He turned the stunned face of his boss toward him with firm fingers against Hotch’s chin.

“I’m…I’m…” It wasn’t grief or loss on the Unit Chief’s face. It was an encore of that first, insanely joyous day back. “I’m…I’m gonna have…a son…” Hotch didn’t try to conceal his tears. It’s doubtful he knew he was crying.

Rossi brought the news back to the others. Smiling, they settled in for the rest of the flight, only stealing occasional glances at arguably the happiest man on earth.

Benign neglect.

 

xxxxxxx

 

At home, Haley had had trouble sticking to her own agenda at first. Every time she’d passed the phone, she’d pause, imagining the conversations she would have. First, she’d planned to call her mother and father, but the second call was the one she’d play on an endless loop throughout her day. The call to her big sister, Jessica.

She’d trumped Jessica in marrying first. And now proof of her superiority would be complete. _I’m having a baby first. I’ll be a wife and a mother and Jessie hasn’t even found a fiancé._ Haley loved her sister, but the rivalry between them was a part of their relationship. It defined actions and attitudes.

And as long as Haley was winning, she loved the affectionate antagonism.

She’d distracted herself by diving into her condition and educating herself.

Over the next several months, books, magazine subscriptions, DVDs, neo-natal supplements, pamphlets touting seminars with names like ‘Midwifery Made Simple,’ and ‘Hubby, the Other Baby’ inundated the Hotchner household.

Haley worked at her pregnancy. By the time everyone was apprised of her condition, what had begun as a tactic to distract the mother-to-be from spilling a secret had become a lifestyle. So when things turned difficult toward the end, when his wife’s blood pressure kept rising and Hotch would have panicked, looking up from a pit of male fear, Mrs. Hotchner was cool and calm and knew what was happening and understood the doctor’s diagnosis.  

She accepted the prescribed bed rest with minimal annoyance, seeing herself in the last lap of the race to motherhood.

When Hotch was home, he danced attendance on Haley. He catered to her cravings and moods, and was as present as a man in his position could be. Secretly, he was glad for cases calling him away, giving him a break. He knew that Jessica would step in, if needed.

But he was sorry he missed the birth of his son.

It was a relief that Haley was so entranced and enchanted, she couldn’t be angry.

So began a new world of emotion and responsibility for both Hotchners. Still, they tried to adhere to traditions.

One of them was the workplace visit; displaying the heir to one’s associates.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“You sure you’re up for this?” Hotch watched his wife packing multiple diaper bags with enough supplies to stock a daycare center. “We could wait, if you need time to, you know…rest or recover…”

Haley gave a small, secretive smile. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. It’s not like recuperating from…oh…a gunshot wound?” Her slight trill of a chuckle belied overt criticism. “Besides, I want everyone to see what a beautiful son we have.” _And make sure all those women you work with know that you are officially and forever **off** the market._

“Me, too.” Hotch gazed down on the tiny life he’d had a part in creating. Razz had told him everything would change. Even if he’d believed it, there was no way one man could convey to another the depth of the alteration that would happen. _I’m happy. I’m so happy. Me! Happy..._

Hotch was also impressed with Haley in her new, maternal role. Her strategy of learning every facet of pregnancy had paid off. She’d continued the trend, and was transforming into the most competent first-time Mom anyone had ever seen. Studying couldn’t begin to replace experience, but it gave her confidence, which turned out to be the most important part of enduring the unexpected.

Finally, Hotch draped himself with the diaper bags like a beast of burden while Haley cradled their most precious possession. They were a very danger-conscious couple these days. Hotch drove below the speed limit, both parents’ eyes darting in constant search for anything that might leap out at them.

Once at the BAU, Haley wanted time to make sure her entrance was, if not perfect, then memorable…the stuff of legend, if possible. She wanted to leave an impression so strong that her husband would bear its indelible mark. She fussed, delving into the bags, freshening and changing when it wasn’t really necessary. Ready at last, she took one stylish bag for show…it was one of the badges of motherhood after all; something the others couldn’t claim.

Haley bundled Jack into her arms, seeing a nervous look in Aaron’s eye as he surveyed the dim, deserted, subterranean garage. He’d never given the place a thought before, but now, with his newborn son present, he found himself on edge, checking dark corners he knew were safe. But checking them nonetheless.

Haley chuckled. “Don’t worry, Aaron.” She cuddled her baby closer. “I’ll guard him with my life.”

Hotch shuddered. Inexplicable, cold fingers were probing down his spine. He led the way to the elevators, but couldn’t shake the chill set in motion by his wife’s words.

They entered the bullpen to a chorus of appreciative exclamations. Drawn like iron filings to a magnet, the team gathered around their beaming leader and his little family.

Haley waited until all the women were present. Glowing with pride of ownership, she placed the life that bound Aaron to her with irrevocable power, into his arms.

Rossi watched the performance. He might have gleaned something of Haley’s subtext, but he was too entranced at the sight he’d longed for: Aaron holding his own child. Smiles lit every face. Voices were hushed in consideration of the sleeping baby.

“Aww…He’s gorgeous.” Garcia would have liked to hold little Jack, but sharp-eyed, sharp-edged Haley snuggled against Hotch, clearly standing guard.

Other congratulatory comments were offered. The new mother preened a little, taking each one as a personal accolade.

Hotch felt his wife’s desire to be admired, and obliged her. “She’s amazing.” He tilted his head, a gracious nod acknowledging the woman he loved. He gazed at her. _She’s so strong. She told me she’d be strong enough for both of us, if it came to that._ The chill he’d felt in the garage shuddered through him again. He could tell everyone was waiting for him to say something more. It came out without thinking, riding the chill…

…“Me?...I’m a little terrified…”…

Hotch swallowed, getting himself in hand. He pushed the icy sensation from him.

In four years, bloody, sinking to his knees, he’d remember this moment...

 

 

-The End-

 


End file.
